“My sister,” Cayetana gasped, “calls me a puta.” “A puta!” “She says I’m a whore.” “Hmm.” Huila reached behind her and took a soggy mass of cool wet leaves and pressed it into Cayetana’s opening. “Too bad you aren’t. You’d have some money. A better house to live in than this!” “Then I’m not a puta?” “Do you believe you are a puta?” “No.” “Then you are not a puta.
