He never accepted the plate of food they tried to press on him, though Joaquín understood only later, knowing what he knew now, that the boy had probably needed that plate more than any of them.

“He gave my daughter a future,” Joaquín said quietly, “at a time when, it turns out, nobody was giving him anything but bruises.

I didn’t know that then.

If I had known —” He stopped, and pressed his lips together, and started again.

“When I heard he was dying, and heard they needed someone healthy who matched — I didn’t have to think about it, señor.

Not for one second.