A Santo in the Image of Cristobal Garcia. Rick Collignon

said.

      “Oh, sí,” Flavio said as he walked across the room and sat down. “He died a few days ago in his bed.”

      “That’s too bad,” Felix said. His hands were folded in his lap and they lay still now without trembling. “I never liked him, but he always knew what he was going to do each day. And he kept the roads clean.”

      Flavio leaned back beside Felix, took off his hat and put it on his knee. “Sippy said we should come by his house later and have a beer.”

      “I don’t know,” Felix said. “Maybe I should wait a little before drinking beer. Besides, the fire’s going to be trouble.”

      Flavio turned his head and looked at him. “There’s no fire, hombre. I just looked. The only smoke in the mountains is dust.”

      Felix was breathing quietly and though his head still shook slightly, even those tremors seemed to be easing. Finally, he said, “We were just little boys, who didn’t know nothing.”

      “What are you talking about, Felix?”

      “She told us that this place was named Perdido, because everyone in this valley was lost.”