My hands on the pavement too, the cracks of the street, a blade of grass, drowning, breathing. Galán bleeding on the podium. My shoe coming off, Mamá’s cigarette, the tip wearing a halo like a dark saint. Hot, cold, drowning, breathing. I hoped Cassandra had gotten away and Mamá was somewhere looking for me. My face against the pavement, everything fading, Petrona’s voice, “Chula, you have to calm down, we can’t stay here, please, Chula, calm down,” her thin, white fingers trembling over my eyes, Mamá’s voice like an outgoing train, saying, “Here, Petrona, let me show you your room.”
