October 1945
Del Rio, Texas
The young boy watched his mother’s chest barely rise and then fall quickly, like a deflated balloon. Even from across the room, with the day’s laundry casting a protective shadow over him, he could hear her lungs struggle for air. Their family room – one of two rooms in the place they called home – was small, damp and almost dark except for the pale light sneaking in through the room’s lone window. It was nighttime, but the moonlight cast an eerie glow upon the scene in front of him. He almost could not make out the color of the gringo’s skin – almost.