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for too long. I will not let their memory be destroyed along with the mountain.
    A humble Salvadoran peasant
    Mitch is at a loss. A shutdown. This close to the launch date. The very thought of it makes his stomach churn. He turns to Carlos, desperate for his take.
    Carlos has a hand to his chin, running it back and forth, as he often does before speaking. In the six months Mitch has known him, he has never once seen Carlos rush. Eventually, leaning forward, Carlos puts both palms on the low coffee table between them and looks Mitch in the eye. “A hostage situation involving foreigners and your mine will be a big story here, in the press. You must appear relaxed and calm. Like this has nothing to do with you.”
    â€œBut it doesn’t!”
    â€œExactly.” Carlos pauses again. “Why don’t I come to the mine sooner — tomorrow, even? I’ll keePMaking calls to my people close to the police. By then, I’ll have more for you. We can discuss in person, prepare a strong response for the newspapers and TV .”
    Mitch smiles, regaining his balance slightly. “Probably this guy’s bluffing, right?”
    â€œHe — or they — may be bluffing,” says Carlos, sounding doubtful. “It’s too soon to say.”
    Sobero is standing by patiently. Nothing has registered on his face since reading the note, and it’s clear he’s not about to share his thoughts with Carlos around. “For your safety, Jefe . We should leave.”
    Carlos nods, encouraging Mitch to listen.
    Mitch gets up, thanking his stars that he knows both these Salvadoran insiders. That’s his edge and he’s got to use it. Because one thing is certain: El Pico will launch on schedule in two weeks’ time. “Forget about the apartment,” he says. “Send someone to pick up some clothes, Manuel. I’m going to my mine. Tonight.”
    February 19, 1980
    Dear Neela,
    A few things, if you ever get it in your head to cover a revolution in Central America:
    1. food sucks
    2. fleas
    3. tampon shortages
    4. avoid being low woman on the totem pole
    You don’t want details on 1 – 3 , trust me. But 4 ’s even trickier. The faction won’t let me out of camp, even though I’ve heard Times and Herald reporters are out there as we speak. A student paper isn’t high priority, I guess.
    I’m trying to be patient — and to prove myself. I did a good interview with a fifteen-year-old who joined up because her family couldn’t afford to feed her and the faction can (but see # 1 to keep this in perspective). She’s training to be a fighter, says she wants to be a Comandante one day.
    I’m dying for more material like this, but camp only provides so much. Most people our age are in the actual war. Here, it’s older people (mostly women) doing the cooking, laundry, etc., and young recruits who aren’t ready to be sent anywhere else. They’re all from the countryside, very shy and reserved. They stare at my red hair, which was funny for a while. When I’ve tried to talk to them about the war, they just repeat clichés like “You can’t hold back the people.” Nothing original for my stories.
    Still figuring this place out, I guess.
    DB

MONDAY
APRIL 4
    DAYBREAK . Foothills, Morazán province
    Step-step, step-step. Danielle stares at the outline of her boots as, improbably, they continue to carry her forward, the details of their laces and purple and brown seaming clarifying as the inky night recedes. She has not experienced this moment of the day in years. She once found it hopeful. Anything might be possible before the sun is up, before objects and people are cemented back into their static forms.
    Suddenly, she ploughs into Martin’s pack. He’s come to a stop.
    â€œPut your bags down there,” says the short man, marching down the line and nodding at a grassy, nondescript area to their left. Danielle