Marilinda Guzman was eighty-two years old, and the things her mother had never told her could fill the condo building that rose like a tall, sharp-elbowed gringa across the street from her own little house. Marilinda, her mother had never said, arranging the yellowed lace mantilla around Marilinda’s wedding-day face, you will be happy with Roberto. Her mother had never curved a cool hand around Marilinda’s cheek and promised, Mijita, your life will be swollen with love. Neither had she revealed, in solemn, confidential tones, Marilinda, on the fourth day the moretónes become bright as flower pollen, and that’s when you will be able to cover them the easiest with makeup.

Somehow, a wild animal–a tacuache or bobcat, some thrashing taloned thing–had gotten trapped in Maria Vega’s belly; it tussled and clawed, ripping at her velveteen insides. She could do nothing as her bowels released. The smell, sharp and ripe, woke her younger brother, Guillermo, with whom she shared the twin-sized bed.