After mass, the crowd ushered me out to the plaza, where one of the usual feasts awaited us. A short woman approached and hugged me. I reached down and kissed her on her forehead. “So you know?” she asked. I said yes, thinking this woman was Lupe Montes, whose eldest daughter, I’d heard, in her seventh month of pregnancy had just given birth to a stillborn boy. But as I continued to hold her, I realized that this was not Lupe Montes. Wrong Lupe. And yet I could have hugged and kissed anyone in the courtyard that evening, all poor and laden with burdens—way more than most—and any one of them
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