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necklace.
    Manuel wants to kiss her.
    “It wasn’t even signed and it was all she ever sent me. I don’t even know what my mother’s signature looks like, but I’m certain her
L
for Lucille is looped both on the top and bottom, big loops.” She draws the letter with its curlicues in the air like a child.
    Cara Mãe
,
    You have not written. I know you are angry but I need to know that you understand.
    Pepsi has no mother. Life hasn’t been easy for her but she’s strong. She’s what I’ve always wanted.
    Mãe
, remember when Jose brought that calf home, the one we had to tear from its mother’s belly? He brought that calf through the front door … you yelled at him, struck him. He nursed it back; he slept in that barn for weeks, fed it milk in a bottle until it was strong and ready. You thought he was afraid to come back. But you were wrong,
Mãe
. He stayed in that barn because there was purpose for him, something to care for. It made him strong. It made me strong.
    It’s not your fault. I don’t write this to hurt you—you are my mother and I love you. But I needed a purpose too.
    I know you are disappointed in these words but I am not angry or bitter. The life you gave me was a gift but it is mine and I must cherish it. Please understand.
    Manuel
    “I no think I go, Andrew.”
    Pepsi trips against the bench as she clears the table. They both look at Manuel.
    “Well … guess you should rest up awhile longer.” Andrew speaks to Manuel but follows Pepsi, tries to lock his eyes with hers.
    Pepsi goes into her room and busies herself with folding the laundry, not looking as her father leaves the house. She turns to see Manuel scanning her body, moving down to her legs, where his eyes stop. He knows she is uncomfortable with his stare but he can’t seem to tear himself away. Manuel’s glare is snapped by Andrew’s shadow as it moves across her window. It will be a long walk to Brigus, via crooked roads and barren fields of rock toward his weekly night in town. Pepsi moves to shut her bedroom door.
    “Pepsi?”
    Manuel loves the way her name sounds. He rests his forehead against her door. She hasn’t shut it in weeks. He waits a little longer before calling out again, and taps at the door.
    “Pepsi?”
    “Come in,” and as quickly as the words roll off her tongue, Manuel opens the door and can see that she is nervous. She is fidgeting with the pleats of her skirt. She sits now at the edge of her bed looking out. At night, Manuel has caught her sitting in the same spot, rubbing oil of wintergreen—its familiar fresh scent was used to massage Manuel’s joints—around her hardened stump, preparing it for the next day’s pounding and grinding. Now, she just sits there, back straight, silently lookingout the window. She moves the blanket over her leg. Manuel moves behind her small frame and runs a hand along her hair and down her neck. She catches his hand with her cheek and traps it there. Manuel sits beside her and moves his free hand under the blanket. She is tense but when she kisses his knuckles that rest in the crook of her neck, Manuel takes it as a sign, an invitation. His hand moves along her wooden leg then touches her brace—a tangle of warm wood and cold metal. Her back tenses. He doesn’t flinch. His other hand dislodges from her neck and shoulder and he cups her smallish face, forces her pleading eyes to meet his. Manuel drags the back of his hand down over the raised grain of the wooden shin. He kisses her papery eyelids. His hand flips over and his fingertips continue up her leg, traversing the stainless steel bridgework, up, up toward her inner thigh. She looks at him, her silence invites him further. He moves his hand down again and wedges a finger between the wooden leg and her worn stump. He nestles it there and feels a strange exhilaration. She pulls at her skirt, tries to cover her shame.
    “Shhh … Manuel no hurt Pepsi.”
    She closes her eyes and feels his fingers on her brace,