Every day Cisco sat in the Plaza De Armas, overlooked by the Cathedral and the Jesuit Iglesia.
When drizzle speckled his lashes he pulled up his hood. When the sun blazed he did the same, ignoring the children selling day trips to the mountains or alpaca wool hats. The young hawkers would stare with their deep, curious eyes before scurrying after tourists with deep pockets.
All the while, he’d try to keep the same scene running through his mind and when his rumbling stomach or stiff limbs distracted him, guilt would descend like a cloud. Because how else would God know what he wanted – what his family needed – if he couldn’t keep the image clear in his head?
The kitchen at home. Mama at the stove. The scent of chilli chicken.
Papa walking in through the back door, face wide with a smile.