Sunlight hit the rim of the Sierra de las Minas and spilled over into the valley, because the night could not last forever. Like all drunkards the sun made us feel foolish, for we were dirty and there was blood on the donkey’s path where we had huddled with a clear view of the road, and blood on our clothes from carrying Miguelito from the car.

I had thought that we were garbed in glorious raiment, and that the round red holes in Miguelito’s body shone like medals, and that the donkey’s path was a wide parade route, and that the broken car was a burnished chariot, and that the soldiers coming down the road were hailing us, saying that the enemies of the people had been vanquished, but the night could not last forever.

“I am sorry I could not give you your revolution, Generalisimo,” I said, staring at the branches and the trunk of a tree.