Perched on the edge of the rocker with both hands on her beer, she stared at the embers of sunset. The man was very close now, she could see the rhythmic bounce of his dark head against the fading coral slash of horizon. She fought back a dizziness. Inside her head, men's voices, pleading then rising in anger until they all became one cacophonous roar. Woven through it, a woman's hum like a lullaby. She leaned back into the chair.
Crossing the mountains, a line of men advanced single-file, leaving their droppings like donkeys.
Yolanda closed her eyes, listened to her mother, her brothers, Juan, Javier, and her Carlos, all singing a loud disharmonious song. Padre Pietro blessed them, sprinkling them with holy water and winking at her with a sly grin. Babies cried and faces moved through memory, sorting themselves in her life.
Through the usual chirpings of insects, the howls of coyotes and questioning whooos of the owl, a sound out of sync with the night; a whimper, a harsh whisper, something not right. Yolanda closed her eyes and concentrated hard, letting her ears absorb the nuance of noises.
There it was again...and this time, a giggle, girl-laughter, knowing and seductively low. Yolanda rose up on her elbows in the bed, cocked her head. The sound came from the back bedroom, where Rosario and the two babies slept. Rosario was eleven years old.
Javier sat counting gold coins into a pile, and Jorge screamed as he ran into the moon.