The cemetery in Culiacán was old and crowded, a city of the dead sprawling across the hillside in a riot of color and candlelight. Mariana walked slowly along the gravel path, her hand wrapped around Alejandro's arm, her pregnant belly leading the way like a proud ship. She was eight months along now, round and heavy and luminous in a crimson dress that matched the marigolds. The fabric draped over her curves like water, off the shoulders, a thin gold chain at her throat that matched the one Alejandro had worn since childhood.

Tonight was Día de los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. The one night each year when the veil between worlds grew thin and the living could walk among the spirits of those they had loved and lost.