Young lovers Héctor and Lilia dream of a brighter future in the United States, but their dream turns to a nightmare when their infant daughter vanishes during the crossing from Mexico. Four years later, back in their hometown of Oaxaca, the couple have a toddler son and another baby on the way when they receive a tip that might lead to their long-lost daughter. Héctor works illegal jobs to earn money for the journey north, and a bedridden Lilia awaits the birth of their third child while obsessively reliving the worst mistakes of her past. Michel Stone gives us a raw and heart-wrenching portrait of a family strained to the breaking point by the unexpected consequences of their hopes for a better life. “Reminiscent of Steinbeck. . . . Stone shows us the inner lives of characters who are the victims of an unjust world, spun and redirected by fates beyond their control.” — San Francisco Chronicle “A poignant, action-packed read. . . . Stone deftly draws readers into the heart of her characters’ hopes and despairs, shining a humanizing light on the divisive subject of immigration.” — Charleston Magazine “A gripping and politically savvy look at the human impact of current immigration policy and an honest examination of the perils facing desperate immigrants.” — Kirkus Reviews,  starred review “A compassionate, beautiful novel. . . . Michel Stone has written a deeply moving tale that delivers a hefty emotional punch.” —Ron Rash, author of Serena “Stone is a great storyteller. . . . There is never a dull moment in this lyrical, engrossing novel. . . . Particularly important reading in our current political climate.” — Library Journal   MICHEL STONE is the author of The Iguana Tree , and has published more than a dozen stories and essays in various journals and magazines. Her work has appeared numerous times in the Raleigh News & Observer 's Emerging Southern Writers series. Stone is a 2011 recipient of the South Carolina Fiction Project Award. She lives in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Chapter 1 Lilia Lilia wished the direction of the evening breeze would shift as she diced the small octopus, dropping the chunks into the briny broth already steaming on the fire. But the wind kept its course, and the funk of her village’s incinerated waste continued to waft across the courtyard. She plucked a sprig of mint from the cracked clay pot beside the kitchen door and stripped its leaves from the stem then popped them into her mouth. She chewed the herb into a slick pulp, hoping it would lessen her nausea. Fernando sat in the dirt nearby, rolling a small truck between his bare feet. When he shrieked with laughter Lilia looked up from her work at the fire. “What do you see, my boy?” The child pointed at a white hen and her butter-yellow chicks pecking at the dust just beyond Fernando’s new rubber ball, abandoned for now beneath the shade tree. Lilia had not experienced any morning sickness with Fernando. Her pregnancy had gone so smoothly she’d worried something was wrong with the baby until she saw him, counted his fingers and toes, and heard him wail. His head had been bare, unlike the thickly matted scalp of Alejandra at her birth. Lilia’s pregnancy with Fernando had been so different from her first that she should have suspected the child to be a boy, but no. That simple conclusion had escaped her, and instead she’d assumed the child inside her womb to be deformed, and she had not fully felt excitement or love until she’d held him and he’d suckled at her breast. Only then did her tears and prayers of gratitude emerge from somewhere unexpected and deep within her. But this third pregnancy felt similar to her first, with daily morning vomiting, and the constant taste of bile lingering in her throat. Perhaps this baby, like Lilia’s first, would be a girl child. Little Alejandra would be almost four now. Is almost four now. She is almost four, Lilia told herself. Is, not would be. Lilia prayed daily for Alejandra’s well-being and happiness. And on the days she felt her hope waning, at those dark times, she prayed to God to punish her for allowing her faith and optimism to slip. These occasional, doubtful thoughts she did not share with Héctor; she’d learned long ago she must shoulder enough strength for the both of them. Lilia ached to believe that Héctor trusted her again as fully as he ever had, that he understood the depth to which her being had been shaken with the loss of their daughter and the horrible, undeniable guilt that permeated Lilia to her marrow for her part in that loss. She longed to tell him that oftentimes as she passed the village cemetery at the top of the hill she felt it watching her closely, as if she should be there with the dead instead of walking among the living. For months after Lilia’s border crossing and the disappearance of Alejandra, Héctor sneered at the sight of his wife. He tried to hide his contempt by turning away, busying himself in some pointless activity, but she f