Diego first knocked and then opened the door, spotting Luz with her face turned to the wall. He stepped through the room, its uneasiness a bleach-like sadness. Across Luz’s altar were photos—Mama, their father, and himself.
“Luz,” Diego said gently, and, when she didn’t turn around, he said, “Little Light.”
Luz turned her body in bed, and her eyes fell upon her brother as if she were seeing a spirit. She hobbled upward on her elbows. She looked into his eyes. “Are you real?”
Diego laughed. He kneeled at her bedside. He held his sister’s face with both hands. “Yeah, I’m real.”
Luz cried into his arms until parts of his white shirt were see-through with tears.
* * *
—
In time, Luz told Diego some of what had happened while he was gone. She spoke of the law office, the corruption in the city, Estevan’s murder, her times with Lizette and Alfonso. The more she spoke, the more Diego said he felt guilt, helplessness. He told his sister that it was his fault.
“No,” said Luz. “It’s the choices we make.”
She never told Diego about Avel and the missing office keys, or how not too long after David’s law office burned, someone else torched Papa Tikas’s grocery store to the ground. David left Denver after that. But she did tell Diego what she had seen. Her visions, she explained, had grown and kept growing. “I can see things about our people. I know our stories.”
The family of four now—Diego, Luz, Maria Josie, and Ethel—drove the next morning to Saint Agnes Home for Children. Just as Luz had described, the lawn rolled out in lush greenery behind high stone walls. Along the driveway to the front entrance, speckled birds landed on the grass, pecking and prying insects from the lawn. The clouds beyond the home were low and off-white. The others waited in Ethel’s car as Diego stepped out and approached the building.
He returned after a long while. The birds across the grass lifted into flight as he stepped over the stone steps, carrying a white bundle in his arms. She was a baby girl, and her eyes were a dazzling green while her skin and hair were lavish and brown. Diego kissed his daughter and handed the baby to Luz in the back seat.
“We’ll call her Lucille,” he said to his sister. “Now, go on, tell her our stories.”
Luz nodded and began to think of what she would tell her niece. She would start, she decided, with a woman she had seen in her dreams, a sleepy prophet.
For my familia
（In memory of Grandma Esther & Auntie Lucy）
And to the people of Denver
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A thank-you is in order for those who helped me with the process of writing this book over the last decade.
To my mother, Renee Fajardo, my grandfather John Fajardo, my godmother Joanna Lucero, and to my elders in the spirit world who protected and taught me with their stories and whose reverberations will live on until the end of time. To my father, Glen Anstine, for being one of my first readers and biggest supporters. To Julia Masnik, who helped birth the earliest chapters and assisted me in finding the story of Luz. To Nicole Counts for seeing my characters for who they are and guiding with her light. To my six siblings and their children who keep the stories alive. To my publisher, One World, for believing in this book. To my team: Rachel Rokicki, Andrea Pura, Oma Beharry, and Carla Bruce-Eddings, and, of course, to Chris Jackson.
Thank you to the historians, archivists, and educators across the Southwest who fielded my research questions: To my long-lost cousin whom I’ve since found, Dr. Estevan Rael-Gálvez. To the brilliant and kind Dr. Karen Roybal of Colorado College. To Charlene Garcia Simms at the Pueblo County Library. To Trent Segura for countless resources and conversations. To my brother Tim for his legal expertise. To Connor Novotny for his overwhelming support. To the wise Melinna Bobadilla. To Dr. Yvette DeChavez who spoke truths beside the fire. To Brian Trembath of the Denver Public Library’s Western History Collection. To Patricia Sigala who hosted me in New Mexico as a teenager. To Phil Goodstein for expanding, keeping, and sharing knowledge of Denver’s past. To Terri Gentry of the Black American West Museum. To Lois Harvey of West Side Books for providing me research materials for over half my life. To Mat Johnson, whose teaching has given me so much. To the late Daniel Menaker. To Joy Williams for her mentorship and light. To Sandra Cisneros, whose work showed me how to dream. To Julia Alvarez for her madrina support. And to Ivelisse Rodriguez, who has always been there for me.
Thank you to the institutions that provided me with space and support to complete this novel. To M12 Studio for concentrated time in Antonito, Colorado. To Yaddo, MacDowell, History Colorado, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
And to all descendants of the Manito diaspora.