“Meli! Come! Hurry!”
Juliana scanned the overgrown coffee trees for her 11 year old son, Meliton.
“Hay, Dios mío,” she mumbled. “That boy will be my death.”
The wind blew harder, and the rain began to gently fall. The sky grew darker.
Pat-a-tat. Pat-a-tat
Heavy drops slapped the leaves and wood roof of their humble shelter.
Juliana inhaled deeply and called again, “Meliiiii!”
At that mome...