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1

“Ready, mija?”

The corners of my mouth lift at the endearment. It took nearly a decade to coax it from my mentor — the highly respected Indigenous elder and Oxford-trained academic, Julio Estéban — and it always reminds me that families are made not born.

Good thing too, or I’d be pretty darn lonely.

But, when he guides the old SUV to the side of the narrow road — gravel crunching loudly under the tires — the smile slips from my face. From this spot — high in the Ecuadorian Andes — there’s a stunning view of the large valley below and, as usual, my stomach turns. This time, it isn’t the paralyzing fear of heights that has me leaning out the door, re-living the fruit and bread from breakfast this morning in Ibarra.

“What the hell, Julio?!”

No longer lush and green, the only splashes of colour come from the small houses scattered like lonely outposts on an abandoned and desolate planet. Everything is dead.

“I told you, mija. It’s all gone.”

It’s so much worse than I’ve been imagining since, about a year ago, Julio told me a far-fetched tale about the changes happening in the lands of his ancestors.

Sitting in a busy coffee shop in Quito, he explained how his family had lived in harmony with the Oro River for thousands of years, maintaining a symbiotic relationship with the water. They took what they needed — and only that — and kept the water clean and fresh. It fed and protected them. It was family.

But— a few years ago, the river began calling for help.

Its cries were the dead fish upon the shorelines. The birds falling from the skies.

Its tears, the plastic floating past their village.

Then, Julio told me, the river simply stopped flowing. One day — suddenly — the river — his family — disappeared.

It was nowhere to be found.

What was the village to do? For thousands of years they had lived with the river. They couldn’t survive without their family.

And so they sent Julio, their leader, to investigate. To discover what happened.

Julio soon heard tales of a dark force rolling across the mountains. One that broke the rocks. Blocked the rivers. Stole the core of the earth.

He knew this dark force.

It had come before. Many times. He’d learned the stories from his elders.

The Inca. The Spanish. The Americans.

Each had shrouded the valley in darkness.

But Julio, like his siblings, thought they were safe. This time, outsiders promised to help. They pledged to stop the darkness before it reached their land.

They passed laws and created oversights. Regulations. This wasn’t supposed to happen again.

But Canadian mining companies, supported by their government, wanted precious metals. Metals used in cellphones and televisions and computers. Metals they could rip from the ground and sell for enormous profits to benefit stock-holders in far away lands.

One company, he said, had dammed his river.

“Aren’t there procedures?” I asked naïvely. “I mean, I know rules don’t mean very much—”

“Not when your government doesn’t make the companies follow them and my government is too scared to intervene. That never turns out well for us.”

“Sure. But to dam a river? Without any consultation? Or notice?”

“Mija,” he said, slowly shaking his head, “we’re just dollar bills to them. They stole our river. Our family.”

“And you want me—”

“Will you share our story with the world?” he asked with a hopeful expression on his weathered face. “Force them to listen?”

How could I refuse?

So, I’ve been knee-deep in research for months, digging through newspapers, company archives, government records, and legal documents searching for evidence connecting Canadian mining interests to the destruction of the San Pedro valley. I’ve become quite the expert in accessing documents that governments and corporations want to keep secret. And there have been plenty. I even found a letter — written in Spanish — that confirms the company understood the long-term consequences of the dam on the local communities and ignored them.

But this is my first time back to the valley in years — since before the dam was built — and the visceral evidence of the devastation lands like a punch to the gut.

This is horrible.

“Don’t worry, mija,” Julio says in a quiet voice, wiping tears from my cheeks with the soft wool of his poncho.

He pats my shoulder and starts the car. Warm air rushes from the vents, drying the remaining moisture on my face into lines of salt on my face.

“There’s hope.”

“There is?” 

“Yes.”

Throwing the SUV back in gear, he continues the harrowing drive down unpaved roads through the narrow mountain pass.

“What hope, Julio?”

“Ellie Isaac, world-famous author—” I chuckle at the description. “—is here. Now slather your pasty gringa skin in sunscreen, put on that ridiculous hat of yours, and prepare to meet some locals.”

Eventually we reach Julio’s family home — a bungalow painted yellow with large windows and a wide porch at the edge of the large valley. His sister Flora lives here now with her husband and their children, running a small farm and working hard to keep their ancient traditions alive.

Or they were. Before the river disappeared.

“I have nothing left,” Flora tells me in a low voice.

 Her brown eyes — so like her brother’s — are filled to the brim with pain and sadness.

“I have nowhere to go. This is where my family lives—”

She gestures to the stone markers in the small cemetery behind the house. Tears roll down her cheeks, their pattern worn permanently into her face after so many years in mourning. My heart breaks into a million little pieces.

She offers a small lunch — there isn’t much to be had — and coffee. The roasted beans come from neighbours on the other side of the mountain, exchanged each spring for dried fish, rice, and beans. But she has nothing to trade this year, so she’s forced to serve it weak and grainy.

Her embarrassment — her shame — makes me weep with sorrow.

Afterwards, Julio and I begin walking — in silence — up and down the banks of what used to be the river. Our feet slip on the pebbles and rocks exposed by the retreat of the water and we crunch over fish bones and the dried remains of plants. Bird carcasses lay half-decomposed, no predators left to strip their bones.

Death is everywhere.

And, all of a sudden, for the first time in my life — in my career — it’s finally too much.

How can I carry the weight of these horrors and go on?!

How, I scream inside my head, do I make it stop?!

Yet Julio’s hand resting on my shoulder — his patience and support as I sob into the dry river-bed — reminds me that I don’t have to carry this alone. I have Julio. And I have his family.

And they need me. They need someone to share their tale.

They’d never take my charity — my money — but they’ve asked me to fight with them. If I can’t find the strength, what hope is there for them?

I get to my feet and keep walking.

Slowly the villagers come. One at a time. Two at a time. Sometimes four or five at a time.

They’ve heard there’s a gringa who wants to listen to their stories. To witness their loss.

And they want to share. They need to share.

Together, we walk up and down the banks of the river. It’s a meditation, I think. Maybe a funeral march.

And, like all the best wakes, we laugh and we cry in equal measure. We speak of the deceased — the river — as an old friend. An aunt. A parent.

They tell me stories, both funny and moving, about their relationship and their love. Their words seep into my skin, bringing me closer to the truth.

About a week in to our visit, twenty elders from a village many miles away meet us on our walk. The moment the traditional greetings are complete and our offerings have been received with gratitude, their leader steps forward. 

“We hear you will bring back the river,” she says bluntly in heavily-accented Spanish.

“I’ll try,” I reply, smiling a bit sadly.

“We need more. We’ve been waiting too long. Waiting on gringos—” Her dark brown eyes narrow with suspicion — am I another outsider who will abandon them?

“The world—” I gesture wildly, emphasizing the scope of the problem. “—is a terrible place. But I will do what I can.”

“They will not listen to me,” she says sadly. “To us. We need you to make them hear.”

“What I promise—” I meet her eyes. She smells earthy, like someone who spends her life digging in the garden, and it feels reassuring. Calming. “—is to fight as hard as I can, and with everything I have, to find your river and bring it back to you. I can’t promise to win. But I promise to fight.”

“Go with the strength of the ancestors, Fights With Words,” she responds, embracing me like the family we are.

My heart swells inside my chest.

How is there still room for it in there?

Oh, I’m good, Ellie. Don’t worry about me.

2

Back in Quito — standing on the sidewalk in front of the bustling restaurant La Familia and struggling with my ancient backpack — the familiar rhythms of the city settle around me like a warm coat.

The sun is dropping behind the mountains — it must be nearing six o’clock — but music still thrums from the nearby plaza and the street bustles with people. Many are short — like me — but where my skin is white and pale, theirs has been baked to a rich brown after generations near the Equator. Most dress in jeans and t-shirts but a surprising number wear the ponchos, sombreros, and boots of their forebears. Their voices wash over me — a mix of Spanish and Indigenous languages — and, in the distance, I pick out merchants shouting their offerings to the crowd. My stomach growls with hunger.

Of all the places I have travelled — and there are many — this is definitely my favourite.

Maybe because it was my first.

I have a vision of myself — eighteen years old and distraught — stumbling off the plane into a completely foreign world. The air in the terminal was warm and muggy, and my rumpled jeans and ratty t-shirt clung uncomfortably to my clammy skin. My curly hair, difficult to manage at the best of times, was frizzy and unwieldy in the humidity. Every joint in my body ached.

When I’d fled my high school graduation — heartbroken and alone — I packed a suitcase — the same MEC backpack, actually — and took a twenty-dollar taxi to the local airport. As the sliding doors hissed closed behind me, I vowed never to return. And I haven’t.

But I had nowhere to go. No plan.

I chose the Aeroméxico counter because I spoke a little Spanish — very little, I quickly discovered — and bought a ticket to the farthest location I could afford.

Quito, Ecuador via México City.

I was lost, lonely, and depressed.

But then a miracle happened.

Not that I believe in miracles. I was probably hallucinating from the long day of travel and the shocking lack of oxygen at this altitude.

Either way, I swear I felt Wawa Pichincha and Ruku Pichincha — the enormous peaks rising above Quito — wrap their arms around me and whisper a promise to keep me safe. They offered me their unwavering strength and resilience and have never failed me yet.

“Ellie!! Ellie!! Ellie!!”

It sounds like hundreds of voices are calling my name, but when I locate the source, I see five young children barrelling towards me from inside the iron gates of the restaurant. I give each of them a big hug and a sloppy kiss, listening to shouted descriptions of new pet cats, an ongoing fight over a piece of candy, and plans for the coming weekend.

“Get,” their grandmother says gently, shooing them to their seats at a table at the back of the room — away from the paying customers — and sweeping me into her arms. She’s shorter than me — and I am only 5’2” — but she envelopes me like a giant.

“Maria.”

“Welcome home, mija!”

The older woman — hair still shockingly black despite her advancing age — ushers me towards the kitchen — the centre of the La Familia universe — and allows her husband Ivan a break from the cooking to greet me. He wears his usual collared shirt tucked into brown polyester pants and smells like comfort food — soup, rice, beans, plantains.

Owned for generations by members of Maria’s family, the restaurant somehow — mysteriously — attracts locals and tourists in search of a place to feel warm and safe in a strange land. They cater to the lost and the lonely. The misfits.

Together, Ivan and Maria have seven adult daughters — collectively referred to as “the girls.” They’re all married, to Maria’s enormous relief, to good men — mostly locals but the youngest, Paola, snagged a rich Colombian who visited the restaurant and never left.

Between them, “the girls” have nineteen children — ranging from newborns to teenagers. Five are here tonight, but the rest will, no doubt, wander in and out at various times throughout my stay. It’s a large and lively family, and it’s mine.

I am home.

For the next two hours — amidst the chaos of a popular restaurant and a revolving door of children and grandchildren — Maria fills me in on all the news and gossip — the latter always more interesting — and listens to stories about my travels to Ottawa, New York, London, and Washington, D.C. over the past several months. She laughs at my description of the torrential downpour in the Canadian capital that left me soaked and shivering and she gently wipes tears from my face as I describe the recent visit to San Pedro.

But, while the delicious food and good conversation are excellent, they aren’t nearly enough to ease massive weight of responsibility around my neck. And, so, when Maria and Ivan begin closing up the restaurant for the night, I take my suitcase to the guest room — the one with the flowy curtains on the windows — and head back out into the cool evening air.

The narrow streets of the old city — so crowded and lively during the day — are now shadowed and dark. Even the dancers who usually gather in the squares to perform in brightly-coloured costumes under portable floodlights are absent. Only small groups of locals gather on the benches scattered across Plaza Grande, their laughter carrying on the evening breeze.

For a second, a strange sense of loneliness washes over me, as I wish I Paul “my first love” Jefferson was here to share this with me.

That I could see his handsome face light up at the stunning architecture. Tell him stories about my previous visits — the time I got caught in a protest against the government and was nearly trampled by a horse or the woman I met who believed aliens were coming to save us all and that ground zero would be Quito. Feel the reassurance of his hand — calloused but strong — as we move through the historic and dynamic space. Debate which is better: the old centre or the modern outskirts of the city.

What?! Ellie!! Stop.

You will never share this with Paul. Any of it.

Not the pasta in Bologna or British Museum in London or the sharks in the Caribbean or the volcanoes in Iceland.

We had this conversation those times too. About how Paul is gone. Forever. Remember?

Yes, brain. I remember.

But it’s difficult to shake the empty feeling in my chest.

Turning a corner, I stop in front of a two-story stone building typical of the Old Town with a family-owned fabric shop on the main floor and a spacious residence above. I’m buzzed through the black metal gate and head up a flight of narrow stairs. The door on the left is open, the pale yellow glow emanating from within a warm welcome.

Before the latch even clicks closed, I’m lifted into the air and spun around in dizzying circles. The arms around me are lean but muscular. Strong. My nose fills with a unique mixture of plaster and sweat, vision obscured by long black hair in my face.

“Hi,” I mumble breathlessly once I’m back on solid ground.

“Hey,” Carlos responds in a husky voice and the constriction in my chest eases slightly.

My shoulders feel a little bit lighter.

“Were you working?” I ask, noticing the thick red smock covering his clothes and the white power coating his loose shoulder-length hair.

Carlos Vasquez is a sculptor. He sells some of his own work — abstract contemporary female nudes — but spends most of his time restoring Indigenous and Spanish colonial pieces for museums, churches, and collectors. We met a few years ago when I was researching relationships between Indigenous peoples and the land and a historian recommended I speak with someone in the art world.

Carlos immediately understood what I was asking and took me all around Quito — to public spaces and private residences — showing me depictions of land stewardship throughout history. He taught me more than any book could manage.

But he is also very attractive, with a thin face, eyes that swallow you whole, and muscles only regular manual labour can maintain. The sexual tension was obvious — then and now — and when he invited me back to his apartment I happily accepted. We had an amazing night. And morning. And we keep in touch, usually connecting when I’m in town. He’s implied he’d like more — the word commitment has been used recently— but so far I’ve deflected. 

“No,” he says with a sly smile and my stomach flutters in anticipation. “Just packed up for the night. Maybe I sensed you coming.”

He pushes me against the wall and kisses me enthusiastically. His lips are soft and supple against mine, his tongue persistent and it’s difficult to breathe.

Sliding his thigh between my legs, he offers ample evidence of his arousal and heat flares deep in my belly. He moans with pleasure when I unbutton his smock and slip my hands under his t-shirt, caressing a smooth and muscular back.

“Come,” he commands, guiding me to the bedroom down the hall.

Even in the dark, I notice the bed is unmade and clothes litter the floor. He wasn’t expecting me. Or anyone else.

Our clothes are on the floor before we even reach the bed, and he reaches quickly for a condom from the nightstand. I groan when he slides inside me and wrap my legs around his waist to draw him closer. And deeper. Over and over and over again.

It should feel rushed. Or impersonal. But instead it’s urgent. Necessary. Mind-numbing.

“Te extraño,” he whispers into my hair as I shatter to pieces.

I missed you.

3

I’m walking through Plaza Grande two days later on my way to meet Julio for a writing session when my phone starts ringing inside the battered leather messenger bag slung across my body. Fumbling with its contents — a notebook, pen, a paper map of Quito, sunscreen, lip balm — I finally find the small device shoved deep to the very bottom. The display shows a New York number I don’t recognize.

Ugh. Why?!

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ellie? It’s Sara Fredericks from Boudica Magazine in New York.”

“Sara,” I respond quickly, relieved to have answered the phone.

We have known each other a very long time and she gave me opportunities when no one else would. I had no college degree. No experience. No training beyond the high school newspaper. But she was willing to take the time to meet with me. She assigned me a few stories and, from that moment on, began training me as an investigative reporter. She even published my first book — outlining the devastating effects of austerity economic policies on Latin American countries — through a subsidiary company designed to give women a platform for their stories.

I owe her a lot. Maybe even my entire career.

“How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” she responds with a loud sigh.

“Oh no.”

I sit on a bench facing the soaring obelisk in the centre of the square — a monument to independence from colonial rule — and use the colourful bandana wrapped around my wrist to wipe the sweat from my forehead. It’s barely eight o’clock in the morning and not particularly warm but the sun beats down from directly overhead.

“I just had a call from one of our regular columnists and he’s being an ass. He’s demanding more pay to do a piece I’m desperate to print.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, you know men. Always trying to get more than they deserve.”

She laughs loudly, and I can’t help but smile in response. Sara’s the best.

“That’s why I’m calling, Ellie.”

“To tell me men suck?” I chuckle. “I got that memo long ago.”

A young woman wanders the plaza, trying to sell scarves to the locals and tourists. Under the bright sunshine, her face drips with sweat. When she turns and I see the young baby strapped to her back, my heart constricts with empathy. Wordlessly I hand her five dollars, refusing to take the scarf in return.

“No, few folks need that memo. But, as I said, I’m desperate for this piece—”

“And you want me to do it—”

“For the higher fee,” she interjects with enthusiasm.

“I see—”

“That asshole doesn’t deserve it. Especially because he had the balls — sorry, but appropriate in this context — to ask for more money from me. Sara freaking Fredericks. Owner of a massive media conglomerate that could, if I so desired, end his career in publishing.”

“He has courage,” I respond with a snicker.

“But you — my star female and feminist reporter — deserve his fee and so much more!”

“Fuck yes!”

A middle-aged man in a rumpled suit slows, huffing at my foul language. He may not speak much English, but he clearly caught the swear-word and is just as obviously unimpressed. For some reason, I feel compelled to apologize for my behaviour, smiling shyly at him, but he spins on his heel and storms away.

Whatever, jerk.

“I heard you’re in Ecuador—” Sara’s voice in my ear brings me back to our conversation. “—but I’m really hoping you can help.”

“You heard right. I’m working with Julio on our manuscript. We’re on deadline.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry—”

“Any chance you can squeeze in a quick trip to New York? I’ve been under a lot of pressure to hire a man for this — a sports writer — but you’ve got the chops for it—”

I have no idea why, but something in her voice makes the hackles rise on the back of my neck. My stomach churns with anxiety. My gaze darts around the plaza, identifying escape routes. My feet are already on the ground, ready to run.

“To do what?”

“I heard you know the subject—”

I sit up straighter on the bench, heart pounding in my ears. This can’t be good.

“—Paul Jefferson.”

“What—”

The flashback is instant. And intense. It nearly knocks me off the bench.

I’m at the fairgrounds, games and food stands on one side of the dusty path and rickety rides on the other. The smell of mini-donuts wafts across the plaza, bringing with it an image of him — the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen — waiting in line ahead of me, laughing with the carnie handing out greasy bags of cinamon-y goodness.

Paul Jefferson?!

Paul “holy shit” Jefferson.

He was tall and athletic, clearly comfortable in his own skin, with corkscrew curls sticking out from a black baseball cap and tanned skin. When he turned — sensing my gaze — our  eyes locked and, at that moment, everything changed.

I changed.

But—

I shake myself back to reality — back to the crowded plaza and the woman on the phone.

Who meets their soulmate at fifteen?

I don’t even believe in soulmates. There are billions of people on the planet: how could there be only one person I was meant to love forever?

And Paul Jefferson? My soulmate?

Ridiculous.

“You know,” Sara clarifies unnecessarily, “the baseball player?”

Paul Jefferson is a superstar, beloved by fans around the world. He’s probably the most famous player in the league. Maybe even in all of sports.

It’s impossible to avoid the headlines: “Paul Jefferson leads Philadelphia Privateers to another Championship.” “Paul Jefferson seen with three different models on wild weekend in New York City.” “Will baseball’s Paul Jefferson ever settle down?” 

Paul Jefferson, blah, blah, blah.

But I never read beyond the headlines.

Actually, that’s not true. I looked once.

The article, maybe fifteen years ago — soon after his debut in the majors — called him “the most eligible bachelor in baseball… maybe even sports.” I felt sick.

I crumpled the paper, threw it in the garbage, and never read another word about Paul “I shoved you deep into a drawer” Jefferson.

But for Sara to throw his name out there so casually?! Without any warning?!

I mean, come on. What have I done to deserve this?!

“Rumour has it—” Sara’s voice seems far away and my heart pounds painfully in my chest. It’s increasingly difficult to breathe. “—you went to high school together. Somewhere in Canada.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, completely thrown by the unexpected conversation. “We were in the same graduating class.”

It is the truth, but also a huge understatement. A misrepresentation.

For a moment — when I was young and stupid — I thought Paul Jefferson was my everything.

Until he broke my heart.

“So you did go to school together!” Sara sounds thrilled.

“Yeah—”

“I thought it had to be a lie. What’s the likelihood that my favourite writer happens to go way back with Paul Jefferson?!”

“Not great,” I mutter and she laughs.

“Did you know him well? Were you friends?!”

“Ummm—”

Pulse racing, I try to figure out how to answer her truthfully. I can’t lie to Sara.

“I knew him a bit. We had some classes together. But I haven’t seen or talked to him in almost twenty years. Not since graduation.”

There, that seems sufficiently vague but honest.

“Well—” comes Sara’s voice across the continents, “I’m hoping you’ll get to know him rrreeeaaalllly well—”

“Uh—”

Does she mean what I think she means?

“No. Wow. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just think he’s super sexy and couldn’t help myself for a second. That was SO unprofessional.”

She laughs nervously, a sound I’ve never heard before.

“I get it. He’s a hunk.”

A hunk? What the hell am I talking about?

Eject. Eject.

Paul Jefferson certainly affects people in interesting ways.

“Anyway,” Sara explains after a steadying breath, “he recently wore bright pink nail polish to a game to challenge toxic masculinity in the sport—”

“He did what?!”

To say I’m surprised by this news is like saying the sun is warm or that space is quiet. Or that the rich have a little bit more money than the rest of us.

Paul Jefferson plays baseball for a living! Plus, despite actively avoiding him for eighteen years, even I know about the partying and the drinking and the womanizing.

He’s been voted sexiest man alive — twice.

He makes a fortune off his image as a playboy.

What the hell does that guy care about toxic masculinity?

Sara continues as if nothing has happened.

“We, of course, want to do a piece on it. It is perfect for us.”

“Of course,” I murmur, still reeling.

This is unbelievable.

Paul “ran to South America to escape my heartbreak” Jefferson?!

Shit.

“So… can you do it?” Sara asks when the silence drags on too long.

“What?! Me? Why?!”

“What do you mean?”

She’s confused.

Of course she is confused.

I’ve never rejected an assignment from Sara before. Not even the anti-abortion rally in Dublin.

And this is an important story, one she knows — given my interest in feminism — I’d normally jump at the chance to write.

My mind flashes to an image of a beautiful face hovering over top me, unbelievable eyes — the blue of my beloved prairie sky — boring into mine.

“I’ll do it.”

“Awesome!! I’ll set everything up with his people!”

Oh god.

What did I do?

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