When Tomás was alone in the storage room, he’d lean into the nearest corner, smelling oil and rat piss. He’d lean so close he dabbed his nose with grit, and he’d declare his intentions. “I don’t kn-now what you want from me, but I’m gonna find you. I kn-now what you look like, man. And I kn-now where you are.”
Of course, Santiago was everywhere. He was on his friends’ personal altars, he hung from their walls, and he rode his stallion through the front of the church every Sunday. These words were meaningless, but Tomás said them anyway.
He considered telling someone, but he knew his parents would scold him. “Tomás,” his mother would say, “what is wrong with you?” His father would shake his head. “You need to take things seriously, Tomás.” And his siblings and friends would make fun of hi
