In spite of the summer heat, a chill ran up Omar’s spine. He turned the shell over in his hands, and imagined he could feel electricity...
Where was his father’s soul right now? What wondrous things was it seeing? What reality had unfolded before his father’s eyes? What terrible truths did he...
“The man in the photo," Omar said, “Is your grandfather and mine.” Melo made a guttural sound, while Ivana's face darkened with anger.
“I have waited for this moment,” Nemesio said. "Do you know what happened to me? How miserable my life became? I survived only to destroy you."
Omar dashed between the traffic lanes, trying to make out the Mercedes driver’s face. But the man reversed, swung a u-turn and sped off.
‘If one day I am shipwrecked,” he whispered, “and a typhoon breaks my sails, bury my body near the sea in Venezuela.” The words comforted him.
Omar met Celio Natá's flat gaze. The man was the Black Knife: the Ngäbe-Buglé’s secret weapon. A one-man strike force.
What did he need a grandfather for, anyway? He had a wonderful life. In fact, his life was so good it sometimes frightened him.
The driver whistled. “Waow. You some big politico? So watchu gonna do about the foreigners snatchin’ our jobs? The Chinos?”
I appreciated Safaa's defense of my honor, but I was busy trying to understand Farah Anwar’s strange reactions and bizarre statements. Wasn’t this what she wanted?...