Forthcoming November 2024

You do not arrive in Tadeo. You descend into it. And there’s trumpet and fanfare on the bus radio, and there’s the brushing sound of the feathers of wings from pigeons or angels, and the stars and the streetlights glitter all above you. 

Hallelujah. Or something like that. 

When the bus rounded the first corner just after five in the morning, Tadeo, below, looked like it had leaked from the cracks in the rounded mountains and just happened to collect all around a shadowy-looking cathedral. Past the fence of sharpened cypress trees, the town was moving, breathing. Its hundreds of lights twinkled and coursed.