family, raised to tend the communal crops and attend church on Sundays. But Sergio knew different. Rosa was teeming with life. She was so full of life, it overflowed, like the village wells after a rain, and that’s why the bees always danced around her like honey-making angels. Where there was Rosa, there was life
.
And where there was Rosa, there was also Sergio
.
Rosa ran her fingers along the tree trunk, patting the lucky knothole. “Father Alejandro says with God, all things are possible. Mysteries. Miracles.”
“
Rosa!” Sergio cried. “You’re bleeding!”
She kept walking, circling the tree
.
Sergio dropped from his branch faster than an autumn leaf. “I said you’re bleeding!” He grabbed her shoulders and made her stop
.
“
Am I?” Rosa looked down at all her limbs. There it was, jagged down her shin, a stream of blood. Every time she put weight on that leg, blood oozed from the deep cut. “I must have scraped it on the rocks,” she said
.
“
Shh.” Sergio knelt next to her leg, waiting, watching
.
Then it happened — the cut sewed itself whole, the flaps of broken skin pulling together as if with invisible thread. He touched the healed flesh in wonder, as he always did. Father Alejandro once told him that in the world outside the village, pain and sickness weren’t healed like this. Cuts had to be stitched together with actual thread; injuries hurt; pain scorched like a fire in the flesh. Some wounds killed
.
Sergio couldn’t even imagine . . . Outside the village, would a cut like this keep bleeding forever? Would such a wound have
killed
Rosa?
He splashed lake water over her leg to clean it, and when the blood washed away, the skin was smooth, not a trace of the wound left. Then he sat against the tree trunk, panting until his pulse leveled
.
“
It was a little scratch,” Rosa said, flicking away a bee that buzzed too close to her ear. “It was nothing.”
“
It was not nothing.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “I could see your bone.”
“
So?” Rosa’s eyes burned. “I could have bashed the bone to shards and it still would have healed. It doesn’t make any difference.”
“
It does to me,” he muttered. A smoky wind blew past the children, rustling the leaves
.
The village was preparing for their annual fiesta. Every year, when summer turned up its heat, they slaughtered a lamb, and the people would mix the blood with green onions, lard, thyme, and dried red chili, and make a feast out of it. It was Sergio’s least favorite day of the year
.
“
You’re the only one in the village who’s scared of blood, you know that?” Rosa suddenly said
.
“
Am not,” he said
.
“
Are too,” she said. “Why?”
Sergio blew a gust of air out his mouth. “I’m not scared. It just makes me a little sick, is all.”
She filled a nearby pot with lake water and let Sergio take the first drink. “Blood’s a part of life,” she said. “Blood and bones. It’s normal.”
Sergio sat up as though he had just grown a spine. “No. It’s not. You scraped through to the bone. The bone, Rosa — that’s not normal. And what about this morning? A thorn went straight through your palm.” He reached out, almost daring to touch the place between Rosa’s thumb and wrist where earlier a cactus thorn had driven through an inch of her flesh. He put his hand back into his lap before he could make contact, but his point stood: where a fresh, painful wound should have been bandaged and still healing, Rosa’s skin was smooth, clean as an apricot
.
“
You worry too much.” She climbed back into the tree, bees following her up the trunk. “I could slip right now.” She dropped upside down, swinging by her ankles. “I could land headfirst on a rock. Crack my head open like a gourd. Blood, bits of brain everywhere —”
“
Stop, stop.” Sergio paled
.
“
It. Doesn’t. Matter,” she said. “The tree heals us, every time.” She sighed. “It’s boring. It’s too
.
And where there was Rosa, there was also Sergio
.
Rosa ran her fingers along the tree trunk, patting the lucky knothole. “Father Alejandro says with God, all things are possible. Mysteries. Miracles.”
“
Rosa!” Sergio cried. “You’re bleeding!”
She kept walking, circling the tree
.
Sergio dropped from his branch faster than an autumn leaf. “I said you’re bleeding!” He grabbed her shoulders and made her stop
.
“
Am I?” Rosa looked down at all her limbs. There it was, jagged down her shin, a stream of blood. Every time she put weight on that leg, blood oozed from the deep cut. “I must have scraped it on the rocks,” she said
.
“
Shh.” Sergio knelt next to her leg, waiting, watching
.
Then it happened — the cut sewed itself whole, the flaps of broken skin pulling together as if with invisible thread. He touched the healed flesh in wonder, as he always did. Father Alejandro once told him that in the world outside the village, pain and sickness weren’t healed like this. Cuts had to be stitched together with actual thread; injuries hurt; pain scorched like a fire in the flesh. Some wounds killed
.
Sergio couldn’t even imagine . . . Outside the village, would a cut like this keep bleeding forever? Would such a wound have
killed
Rosa?
He splashed lake water over her leg to clean it, and when the blood washed away, the skin was smooth, not a trace of the wound left. Then he sat against the tree trunk, panting until his pulse leveled
.
“
It was a little scratch,” Rosa said, flicking away a bee that buzzed too close to her ear. “It was nothing.”
“
It was not nothing.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “I could see your bone.”
“
So?” Rosa’s eyes burned. “I could have bashed the bone to shards and it still would have healed. It doesn’t make any difference.”
“
It does to me,” he muttered. A smoky wind blew past the children, rustling the leaves
.
The village was preparing for their annual fiesta. Every year, when summer turned up its heat, they slaughtered a lamb, and the people would mix the blood with green onions, lard, thyme, and dried red chili, and make a feast out of it. It was Sergio’s least favorite day of the year
.
“
You’re the only one in the village who’s scared of blood, you know that?” Rosa suddenly said
.
“
Am not,” he said
.
“
Are too,” she said. “Why?”
Sergio blew a gust of air out his mouth. “I’m not scared. It just makes me a little sick, is all.”
She filled a nearby pot with lake water and let Sergio take the first drink. “Blood’s a part of life,” she said. “Blood and bones. It’s normal.”
Sergio sat up as though he had just grown a spine. “No. It’s not. You scraped through to the bone. The bone, Rosa — that’s not normal. And what about this morning? A thorn went straight through your palm.” He reached out, almost daring to touch the place between Rosa’s thumb and wrist where earlier a cactus thorn had driven through an inch of her flesh. He put his hand back into his lap before he could make contact, but his point stood: where a fresh, painful wound should have been bandaged and still healing, Rosa’s skin was smooth, clean as an apricot
.
“
You worry too much.” She climbed back into the tree, bees following her up the trunk. “I could slip right now.” She dropped upside down, swinging by her ankles. “I could land headfirst on a rock. Crack my head open like a gourd. Blood, bits of brain everywhere —”
“
Stop, stop.” Sergio paled
.
“
It. Doesn’t. Matter,” she said. “The tree heals us, every time.” She sighed. “It’s boring. It’s too
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