Sweat dripped from her forehead, and blood dripped from her father’s blade. Fernanda stood panting, barely noticing the drips, pondering her future.

Papa had died when she was fifteen, somewhere far away, and they kept his body wrapped in black cloth until they put him in the ground. Mama had cried and cried, and still cursed the things she’d buy with the money he’d left. For Fernanda, he’d left his hard, keen knife, and memories of a man who worked abroad and loved her dearly whenever her was home.

But even before he’d died, when Fernanda had first started to turn from niña to muchacha, she realized he’d passed on something even more than money or a memory.

Fernando Mario Ruiz Garza had given his daughter his speed.

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