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Karl, we all agreed, since he was the oldest. We drew lots for the other. Marcus won.

We ate chicken, rice, and fried plantains by candlelight in the dark cookhouse. The cursed boy, our guide, kept peeking through the window all the while we were eating. He didn't crack a smile, just looked.

When we came out of the cookhouse, we found the boy's father, the man who had been grazing the horses in the pasture, waiting for us. He wanted someone to tell his troubles to. He looked about guardedly, afraid the señora might overhear him.

'Take a look at me,' he said. 'I don't even know how old I am. When I was young, the señor brought me here. He promised to pay me and give me a plot of my own. Look at my clothes,' he said, pointing to the patches covering his body. 'I can't remember how many years I've been wearing them. I have no others. I live in that mud hut with my wife and sons. They all work for the señor, like me. They don't go to school. They don't know how to read or write; they don't even speak Spanish. We work for the master, raise his cattle, and work his fields. We only get rice and plantains to eat. Nobody takes care of us when we are sick. The women here have their babies in these filthy huts.'

'Why don't you eat beef or at least milk the cows?' I asked.

'We aren't allowed to slaughter a cow. And the milk goes to the calves. We can't even have chicken