IT WAS THE TIME of day when children in small towns everywhere play in the streets, filling the afternoon with their shouting. When the black walls still reflect the yellow light of the sun. At least that’s what I’d seen in Sayula, just yesterday at this same hour. And I’d seen the still air shattered by doves flapping their wings as if they were breaking free of the day. They flew about, dipping toward the rooftops as the shouts of children fluttered about and seemed to turn blue in the evening sky. Now here I was, in this town devoid of all sound. I heard my footsteps as they fell on the
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