That night we all had dinner at the Castro house instead of going out. By ‘we all’ I mean Tiny and Grant, too. It seemed as if Mamá had somehow adopted them into the family as well. She was especially fond of Tiny, treating him like a good family friend and not just the help.

Jeremy seemed to enjoy the attention, smiling more than I’d ever seen him do before. He was the only person Mamá let help her in the kitchen- the rest of us she chased away when we offered. She put Tiny to work with no qualms, though, the two of them chatting away as they prepared dinner together.

Emmy and Angela had gone up to Angela’s old room to take a little nap before dinner, leaving Papá and me alone in the sitting room.

“My Marisa was the same way when she was expecting,” Rafael said. “She tried to be as active as ever, but would get tired and need to rest more than she wanted to admit.”

“Honestly, I’ve been trying to encourage the two of them to rest more,” I agreed. “For the babies, if not for themselves.”

“That is the most effective argument,” Rafael confided. “Use the babies’ health to convince them. Tell them that Marisa and I want big, strong nenas to take care of. We are counting on the two of them to give us granddaughters.”

“I read somewhere that grandchildren are the reward you get for putting up with your own kids,” I said with a chuckle.

“Marisa and I, we have been lucky. Our two have been perfect angels. Mostly.”

The two of us were lost in thought about babies and perfect little angels when Grant joined us.

“I just got off the phone with Michael,” he said. “He’s gonna come down with a Spanish-speaking team. I told him that half a dozen would probably be enough- you agree?”

“Yeah, that should be plenty. Does he know they’ll be here for a while? Like, maybe months?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure he does, but you may want to talk to him yourself, just to firm up his plans.”

“Yeah, I should do that,” I agreed. “We’ve texted, but I need to have a real conversation about all this.”

“No time like the present,” Grant urged, and I had to concede the point. I made my way upstairs to the front balcony, leaving behind the warm companionship of the sitting room. Michael answered immediately when I called. The two of us talked for almost an hour until Cecilia came up to bring me down for dinner.

“I talked to Michael,” I said during dinner. “He’s going to bring a crew of a dozen down, with the idea that they’ll be here for at least a couple of months.”

“Why so many?” Angela asked.

“Well, we have two groups, right? The ones by the harbor, and the others on the island. They’ll split up into two squads- four outreach and two hitters in each squad,” I explained. “Each squad will embed with the locals until we can get our programs here up and running.”

“What are you talking about?” Cecilia demanded.

“Te voy a explicar,” her dad told her. “Pero eso no sale de esa casa, entiendes?”

Cecilia crossed her arms and pouted in protest, but that was as far as it went, I was happy to see.

“I do not understand what you mean by ‘outreach’ and 'hitters’,” Emmy said.

“Well, most of our people involved in bringing strays into the fold are trained to do just that. They know how to reach out, what to do and say, and how they can help the strays immediately and directly, right? Those are the group we call ‘outreach.’ Unfortunately, because of the world we live in, they sometimes need security. Those are the ones that Grant and Jody have been working with.”

“Your paramilitares?” Angela asked.

“Yeah, them,” I confirmed. “We call them ‘hitters’, and our really tough guys are the ‘heavy hitters’. You saw some of them in Tokyo.”

“What is the ratio of hitters to outreach?” Rafael asked.

“I think overall it’s about one to ten,” I said, looking to Grant for confirmation.

“That sounds about right,” Grant said, thinking about it. “I’m not really involved much in the outreach side of things, but I do know that when we flood a new town we have a whole heck of a lot more of them than we do our hitters. Mostly the hitters are just along for the ride and to put up a show of strength. Just by being there and being seen, they stop a lot of conflict before it starts.”

“That makes sense,” Rafael mused. “So they are not there to… coerce?”

“Not at all,” Grant replied. “Any Night Child that wants to is free to join, but any that don’t want to, well, that’s their choice, too.”

“Rafael,” I said. “Angela said that you know Cartagena better than anybody, so if you don’t mind, we’d really appreciate your help with local contacts to get things rolling here. We’re going to need to find teachers and medics, on top of setting up the physical locations for schools and clinics.”

“I would be happy to help,” Rafael replied. “After all, these are my paisanos you are helping, and anything I can do to make my city and my country a better place is a small price to pay.”

Mamá gave her husband a fond smile at that, once again helping me understand how Angela had turned out the way she had. The Castros were just decent people.

The next day was the last that Angela and Emmy (and of course, Grant and Tiny) had in Cartagena, so we booked a boat to take us to Bocachica Isle. Tomás, one of the Night Children we’d met for lunch, had explained that the other big cluster of their people was in the village on the north end but had offered no names or way to contact them, so our plan was to simply walk around the very small town and wait for them to come to us.

The drawback was that this potentially meant a day in the sun for Emmy, so Angela made sure she really laid the sunblock thickly on every part of Emmy that might be exposed to the sun, and also made certain that Emmy brought her extremely dark sunglasses and broad-brimmed hat. Of course Emmy would have done all that anyway, but she was perfectly happy to let Angela fuss over her like that, so she let it happen.

The boat that Rafael lined up for us belonged to a friend of his, who met us at the dock. All he did was just hand the key to Rafael, unconcerned about the potential risk. Clearly Rafael’s extensive network had a lot of confidence in the man, trusting him implicitly.

“The Isla De Bocachica has a few tourist resorts,” Rafael explained as he steered us to pass aft of a big container ship. “But they are small and don’t attract very many foreigners. They are mostly for tourists from within the country. There are ruins of two castles, and the province government maintains them, but they are not impressive. As a result of this lack of tourist development the economy is still mostly based on fishing.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“That’s what they said yesterday. Most of the Night Children are fishermen,” I agreed.

“Yes. It does not pay very well and the work is hard, but it is a trade with a certain amount of dignity,” Rafael said. “I think, if I understand correctly, that it is very important for these people. They may not have much, but they do have their dignity.”

I pondered that for a moment before I spoke. “I think that’s the approach we’re going to take. We’ll remind them of their ancient culture, far, far older than the Spanish conquista, far older than Spain, even. Emmy will remind them of the old ways, and one of the things we’ll offer to teach their children is the old language. Connect them with a past to be proud of. Like you said, just buying them things won’t improve their lives much, but giving them something to be proud of, instead of something to hide…”

“You say their culture is old,” Rafael replied, thinking about what I’d said. “How old?”

“Emmy’s family has objects with their writing on them that date back to at least fifteen hundred years before Christ, maybe older for all that I know. She showed Angela and me a vase made by Night Children in the Louvre that was dated at twelve hundred BC. She said her family has similar items,”

“Her family is that old?” Rafael asked, amazed.

“Apparently so. They’ve been royalty for a very, very long time.”

“And to imagine that I was so proud of my family’s history,” Rafael sighed.

“I only know my family’s history a few generations back,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. “You have me beat by hundreds of years.”

As we neared the island, Rafael pointed off to the left. “The southern end is where the largest pueblo and most of the resorts are. The two ruined castles are there, too. The northern end,” he said pointing at the little mini-harbor where we were headed, “Is the poorer end.”

“The poor part of a poor island?” I asked.

“Just so,” he confirmed, circling a jetty made of what looked like coal stone. “Do you know how to tie a boat up?”

When I told him I had no idea, I suggested that maybe Grant did. I waved for Grant to come over, and when we asked him he said that he had done it hundreds of times. He made his way up to the prow and took the coiled line in hand, stepping gracefully onto the dock when we got close enough. He quickly wrapped several loops of the line around a cleat, then took the aft line and did the same, tying the boat up in moments.

Grant and I helped everyone else off the boat while Rafael went to find whoever was in charge of the dock.

“No wonder I’ve never been here before,” Angela said in dismay as she looked around.

“Baby,” I said in a low voice, making sure that nobody outside of our little group could hear us. “Ditch that attitude right now. We’re here to find the Night Children and help them out. We can’t be seen as looking down on them or the way they live at all. You and your dad are our translators, so you two most of all need to smile and be nice. Your dad is doing an excellent job of making it seem as if he’s comfortable here, so please, Ange, please do the same.”

Angela gave me a look that said my words had stung a bit, but she nodded that she understood and gave me a smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

"You have the prettiest smile in the whole world,” I told her. “Use your superpower for good.”

This got an honest smile from her, so I squeezed her hand. “Perfect,” I told her.

By this time Rafael had returned. “Since we have no idea where to find the Night Children, we must make ourselves as visible as possible,” I said. “Let’s find whatever passes for a town square here and get lunch, if there are outdoor tables.”

“This pueblo doesn’t have a plaza,” Rafael said. “The closest is the area in front of the government building, where they have their weekend market. The school is across the street. I think there is a place…” he said, thinking back to his last visit.

By this point we’d drawn a handful of curious locals, wondering what a bunch of rich tourists were doing there. Rafael had a quick chat with one of the men, with a lot of gesturing and pointing off in various directions.

“José says that there is a good place for us to eat lunch this way, then we go left. He says it is the best restaurant in the village itself. He also recommends we walk up there,” he said, pointing up to the top of the small bluff overlooking town, “For the best views.”

“It is early for lunch,” Emmy said. “We should walk up there, admire the view, and then find our way to the restaurant he mentioned. After all, we need to be seen more than we need to do any sightseeing.”

I looked around as we walked up the unpaved street to the viewpoint that José had recommended. This village was much poorer than the little neighborhood where Ignacio lived by the harbor, that was clear. Where Ignacio’s neighborhood had small houses made of brightly painted concrete, here they couldn’t even afford the paint. Most houses were simple mortared concrete blocks, or occasionally red bricks. Only about a quarter were painted, the rest just left raw.

I was pleased to see that despite the extremely humble nature, the village wasn’t too dirty. Sure, it was run down and a lot of the galvanized corrugated metal roofs had big rocks holding them in place, and sure, nobody had any sort of tended yard or the like, but as far as the random trash you see in a lot of really poor areas… Well, there just wasn’t that much of it.

Our little group acquired a fair number of curious followers as we made our way to the upper part of town, which was exactly what we wanted. If there really were a hundred Night Children in that village (or whatever the exact number actually was), odds are at least one was in that small crowd. When we found the viewpoint that the guy by the dock had recommended, I found myself struck by the sight. Down below us the very small town spread over the slope to the little harbor defined by a couple of jetties. From there, we could clearly see the large expanse of the Bay Of Cartagena, with the high-rises of the neighborhood of Bocagrande and Castillogrande in the distance. Yes, that part of the view was beautiful, but the stark contrast with the ramshackle homes and scattered businesses of Tierra Bomba, the village we were standing in, was stunning. Way over there lay wealth, comfort and privilege, clearly visible from the tumble-down homes of the residents of the island.

“This is my city, my country, and all of Latin America,” Rafael said, gesturing at the view. “Riches and poverty, all in the same view. Those who have wealth can ignore the poor, but the poor can never forget the rich.”

“It is hard to ignore the rich,” one of the local bystanders said, surprising all of us with her command of English. “When they come here and walk through our pueblo to look at the view.”

“You are not wrong,” Rafael said, turning to the young woman. “But we,” he said, indicating our group, “are not here to simply admire the city beyond.”

“Why are you here? The beach resorts are down there,” she said, pointing down along the shoreline to the left. “There is nothing here for tourists.”

Emmy stepped forward, removing her sun hat and dark glasses. She said something to the woman in Spanish that I couldn’t catch, and it quickly turned into a rapid-fire discussion. Another couple of the locals joined in, as did Rafael. Although no voices were raised, it was clear to me that the woman who had spoken in English wasn’t welcoming, but one of the local guys was arguing on our behalf. This went for a few minutes while the rest of us (and the rest of the locals) watched.

Finally, an agreement was reached, albeit with the English-speaking woman’s obvious disapproval.

“Leonardo will take us to meet his grandmother,” Emmy announced. “We will all have lunch at her social club.”

Satisfied that we were on the right path, we followed Leonardo back down the hill. By this time the majority of the locals had gotten bored and wandered off. Notably, the woman that spoke English was still with us- in fact, she seemed insistent that she would lead us to Leonardo’s grandmother, judging by the way she took the lead, scowling at Leonardo and the other local guy we were following.

Down at the little harbor again, we turned left and made our way along the street that paralleled the water.

Rafael translated Leonardo’s commentary, pointing to an ugly two-story building made of the same raw, unfinished concrete blocks as most of the rest of the places we’d seen so far. “That is the local government building. Across from it,” he said, pointing out two one-story buildings that were actually painted blue and white, “Is the primary school.”

We turned off the street and went down what might be described as an alley between a home and what looked to be a little market, with curious people standing around outside. There seemed to be a lot of people in the little village just milling about, doing nothing in particular.

When I asked Rafael, he shrugged and said the fishermen are done working by dawn, so they have the days free.

The place that Leonardo led us to was a decent-sized covered patio, with a basic concrete building (painted vibrant green and yellow) that contained the kitchen, an indoor meeting room and bathrooms.

There were maybe a dozen senior citizens enjoying the breeze in the shade while they played cards, gossiped, or, in the case of a couple of the old men, softly played guitar.

All conversation and activity instantly stopped when Leonardo led us into the patio. The old folks all stared at Emmy and Tiny, pretty much completely ignoring the rest of us after a brief glance.

Emmy took off her hat and sunglasses as she walked into the center of the space. She made a full revolution, looking at the maybe twenty to twenty-five or so people, who all stared back at her, mesmerized.

“Buenas tardes,” she said. “Yo me llamo Emmy De Lascaux.” Then she said something that I knew meant ‘peace and prosperity’ in the language of the Night Children.