Without Blood

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The old farmhouse of Mato Rujo stood blankly in the countryside, carved in black against the evening light, the only stain in the empty outline of the plain.

The four men arrived in an old Mercedes. The road was pitted and dry—a poor country road. From the farmhouse, Manuel Roca saw them.

He went to the window. First he saw the column of dust rising against the corn. Then he heard the sound of the engine.

No one had a car anymore, around here. Manuel Roca knew it.

He saw the Mercedes emerge in the distance and disappear behind a line of oaks. Then he stopped looking.

He returned to the table and placed a hand on his daughter’s head. Get up, he told her. He took a key from his pocket, put it on the table, and nodded at his son. Yes, the son said. They were children, just two children.

At the crossroads where the stream ran the old Mercedes did not turn off to the farmhouse but continued toward Álvarez instead.

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