A figure approached the base of the hill. Tomás nestled into the grass and sat watching. It began as a gray-clothed sliver that zigzagged upward. Every few moments it would pause and then begin again. Minutes passed, and it took shape. At first Tomás mistook it for Miguelito. The shoulders were stocky and wide as his brother’s. But the face materialized, and Tomás, shaking his head, could not unsee the image of Carlos’s face, serene and Italian, round-jawed and clean-shaven except for the layer of hair above his lip. He was tall, taller maybe than Tomás, and he was wearing gray overalls smeared with dirt and oil.
Tomás stood, arms folded across his chest, but as soon as the man reached the plateau atop the hill, his likeness changed again. The man looked like Tomás, lanky and dirty-blond,
