It was too late now, y la ternura no basta-now that she’d tasted the gunpowder, and the gunpowder was bolivariano, revolutionary. And that unthinkable traitor Camilo was using it to blow up her life. ‘Elisa left with Camilo.’ ‘Camilo took her out of the country.’ These are the text messages Nina receives while living in the storage room of a university in Porto Alegre, Brazil, where she’s cleaning houses to make money to send back home. Home is 4,500 miles away, in Maracaibo, Venezuela, where the water never runs on Mondays and there’s yet another blackout. Where a trip to the grocery store costs 220 times the minimum wage. Home is Elisa, her thirteen-year-old daughter, who loves to run around the house and belt out Queen’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’ Who should be growing, when instead her waist is shrinking. Home is Graciela, Nina’s mother, who lately stays shut up in her room all day talking with her dead, most urgently her beloved husband, Raul (who’s just as eager to talk back from the grave). And what the hell does Camilo think he’s doing now, stealing off with their daughter to the United States of America-the one place Nina most assuredly never wants to call home?
