The callousness sits poorly with me. I remind myself that death is a normal part of life for the street urchins of Potosí. “And?”

“And she was as dead as a doornail. Just like the rest.” He swallows his mouthful of bread, his mouth puckering. “There was something…”

“What?”

He blinks owlishly at me. With an impatient sigh, I fish out another coin and slap it on the table.

“He’ll bleed you dry if you let him,” Santiago says. I ignore him.

“Talk,” I tell Paolo.

“There was something on her hand,” Paolo says. “Like a drawing. ’Cept it was all bloody.”

Santiago and I share a look. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“It was like someone had drawn on her hand but with a knife.” He picks up the knife on the plate he had heretofore ignored. He cuts into the remaining piece of cheese, but not to eat. He traces a symbol of some sort into the rind. A circle with what looks like snakes or vines inside.

Santiago and I lean closer, peering at it. “What is it? Some kind of sigil?”

“Don’t know what a sigil is,” Paolo says. Before I can study the symbol further, he hacks into the cheese with the knife, bisecting the hastily carved circle. “Told you everything I know. If you want to know more, go to Tati’s.”

I nod, sliding yet another coin across the table. Santiago snatches it up before Paolo’s grubby hands can get it.

“Be careful,” Santiago calls as I slide off the stool and stride toward the door.

“I’m always careful,” I call back.

We both know it’s a lie.

CHAPTER 8

Ana

Eventually, Rosalita has to return to work. I keep drinking, but before I know it, the bottle is empty. I tilt my head all the way back and shake it, but all that hits my tongue is a single sad droplet of something that’s closer to vinegar than wine. I stare at the empty bottle as if it has betrayed me.

“Can’t trust anything these days, can I?”

With an angry grunt, I lob the bottle away from me. Unfortunately for whomever is standing below, I have forgotten that I was sitting on a roof.

Glass shatters in impact. Something heavy and meaty thuds against the cobblestones. I wince.

On my hands and knees, I crawl to the edge of the roof to peer over the side. A man is lying on the ground with his friends arranged in a worried circle around him. Mercifully, he still seems to be breathing. There’s a gash on his forehead, but he’s clutching his head and alive enough to moan about it.

I call out, “Sorry!”

“Fuck you!”

I lean back before I, too, sail right off the edge of the roof. “Fair enough.”