Some of her dolls were ranged on the floor beside her bed, toppled bodies, Swiss, African, Chinese, Mexican. She called one "Flaco," one "Negro," another "Henry." ... He had never known all their names. Caterina stirred. Breathing fast, she rubbed both hands roughly over her face, and her lids fluttered open. "Papa," she said. "Yes, dear." "Where am I?" "In your bed." "I dreamed ... I was in school." "In Guadalajara?" he asked. "Yes.... Oh, Papa, don't send me back to school." "Why? I thought you liked the school and the Sisters." "I can't go, and it's too far." "Not now," he said. "Papa..." "Yes?" "Oh ... Papa..." Tears came. "Papa..." "Yes." "When shall we go on a picnic?" "Soon," he said. "Maybe next week. Where would you like to go?" "'Way up the mountain." "Up the volcano on horseback?" "Yes," she said, liking her father's bushy hair and eyebrows. "We'll do that--all of us. Soon." She shivered and closed her eyes. It seemed to her that all the window frames and doorways were merging. It seemed as if the floor had tilted. "Papa ... have the nurse change me." "Again?" "Yes." "I'll call her." He went to the patio window and called, and Carmela answered immediately. Back at Caterina's side, Raul said: "Carmela's coming right away. You know, Caterina, I think the sun will be out soon. The hail has stopped. The wind's rough but it may blow off the clouds." She did not respond. As he waited for Carmela, he thought about the timbre of her voice, how frail it had become, frightened, hurried. Carmela changed her and made her comfortable. "Thank you, Sister," Caterina said. "You're welcome, dear." Carmela, a whipcord woman, could have carried the Master's cross. She had a dusky mustache above Mayan lips. Her hair was sheep-thick and done in twin buns that had long pins sticking in them. Tufts of hair grew in each of her ears. She walked with a rustler's tread--years of convent living and nursing had not tamed her tread. Yet she had the essence of sanctity in her face, and people said that she never lost patience. When she left the room, Raul sat on the bed at Caterina's feet. "She's nice," Caterina said. "Big," he laughed. "Papa ... when will my stomach stop hurting?" She began to cry and covered her face with one arm. "Oh, Papa ... Papa ... ask God..." "What is it?" asked Carmela, returning. "Pain." "Deep in your stomach?" the nun asked, pushing back her white collar. "Yes." "Let me give you more laudanum," said Carmela, going to the medicines on a tray at the dressing table. "No. It makes me sleep. No. No-ooo." "Sleep is best for you. It'll make you strong," the nun said, vigorously rattling the bottle and spoon; she yanked the cork from a blue bottle sniffed the contents and said, "Ah." Her starched clothes sounded the same as the rustle of distant hail. "No..." Caterina said feebly. "Please," said Carmela. "Papa ... no!" (Frightened) "Then later," said Raul.