Each day he would change the bloody bandages and bathe the wounds in some eau de cologne he had found, hoping that the alcohol content would keep the wounds from going septic. But Rafael’s wounds were constantly oozing pus, and the skin of his leg was already turning black. Gustavo and Roberto suspected gangrene, but Rafael never allowed himself to sink into self-pity. Instead he kept his courage and humour, even as the poison flowed through his system and the flesh of his leg rotted before his eyes. ‘I am Rafael Echavarren!’ he would shout every morning, ‘and I will not die here!’ There was
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