Chapter 3 excerpts
"It was November, and the days were getting longer. The sun still came up timidly, covered in fog, and the fragrance of burning wood still lingered over the shivering city in the early hours of the day. But in the countryside the wheat nursed its spiky golden crown, turning eagerly toward the light, while potato plants hugged the sides of the rolling hills and sent out blue and white flowers that trumpeted the approaching harvest. In the countryside during this time of plenty, it was only natural for peasants to think about what they had lost, how the big landowners had moved in with their thugs and torched their parents’ houses, the smell of their burned belongings lingering in the air for days.
“We lost him a long time ago,” Sara told her rumpled, sleep-deprived Shmooti as soon as he got off the train from Temuco. “But if we’re lucky, maybe we have a chance to get him back.”
At first Shmooti didn’t know what she meant. They spent several weeks walking the streets of Santiago, through the warm late-summer light. They walked under the weeping willows of the parque forestal, next to the drought-shrunken Mapocho river, and sat on a wrought iron bench near a bridge that, for some reason, day after day, they knew how to find.