I go to bed listening to the sobs of Paris, who cries alone in her room as if she managed to transmit her sadness through the thick walls of the wall. Mr. Stonecraft continues to pace the room, touching his face with both hands, trying to understand without really understanding. He shakes away, too, some tears.

—You would have your reasons. —I put a hand on his shoulder when, unable to sleep, I go downstairs to get a drink of water. —Give her time. I'll talk to her...

—She won't forgive me. She won't forgive me.

—But... you're her father.

I don't meddle any more in other people's affairs and I go back to bed, in search of a dream I can't find. I keep thinking about the Goddess and her envoy, the Priestess. How something so important for the slave community has always been far away and vetoed for me? How have I been so blind? Why haven't I noticed all these signs? I definitely think the Goddess religion has a lot to do with my mother. She was a slave, she had a Bible...she would be watching over her freedom. For her future. But what I can't figure out is what kind of connection any of this has to Paris' mother. The slaves need the Priestess to survive and maintain hope, but...someone who belongs to the privileged class? What part of that religion might appeal to her? Hasn't that feeling of the free youth who fought hand in hand with the slaves in the last rebellion died yet?

I suppose the answer to all my questions lies in time. In those damned jumps that Mr. Stonecraft keeps programming and adjusting. Maybe the scientific research in Paris will help to know and explain everything we are today. Unearth all the doubts that now assail us. But that won't change anything. We will continue to live in a world divided between rich and poor, between free and slaves. Explaining does not mean transforming.

Going against the world will end up killing me. In that sense, I keep my feet on the ground and that's why I only seek my own freedom. Sometimes I think I'd be better off living on old Greg's plantation. Working from sun up to sun down, leading a routine and simple life. No dangers, no challenges, no freedom, but quiet. After a while I get over it. There is nothing more important than to stop being what I am.

I am sure we must continue what we have started. If we could find Julie, Paris' mother, we could get answers and put more pieces together. But...is she alive? Will Paris want to take the risk and face her monsters? The truth that her mother inevitably has to hide?

I get up late and get to do some chores in a house that has already become a home. That's why I have to help. Well, that and because, even if it doesn't seem like it, I'm still a slave. When I finish washing and hanging out the clothes I sit down to re-read the Bible passage about the town of Monroe, which still exists, as I have been able to verify from the maps Paris has of the United Provinces. It is in the Central United Province, not far from Greg Gordon's plantation. I try to be able to reinterpret the meaning of the passage, as if to find a viable and valid explanation to those unusual miracles.

Engrossed in reading, Paris appears in the room, stealthily, with a folded piece of paper in her hand.

—Listen to this—I tell her when I look up. I read the Monroe passage to her, slowly, slowly, slowly, and I'm stuck.

—Yes. It's one of my favorites. —She replies when I'm done, sitting up in bed. —There's something, I don't know, special about it....

—Just like that, as if...

I turn and see her gray eyes with their thunderstorm in them. There's a mischievous smile on her face. It looks like she's buried all that sadness and crying that cried out to the whole world last night. But she hasn't. I know her already. She keeps it all inside.

—What's the matter? What are you laughing at?

—I'm bringing something. Something for you. And I know you'll like it...

I don't quite understand what she's saying, but she does it with enthusiasm. She hands me the paper she's holding, and I read it:

“From your neighborhood team, your team of always, the Brox City, from the Fifth Provincial Division, we ask for your help. Faced with a wave of injuries and in view of our humble budget, we are looking for two amateur players to face the second round of the League Championship with guarantees. This is your chance to become a professional! Come to our tryout and show us your skills!”

I read it out loud and as the ideas come into my head a strange excitement comes over me, something like a mix between joy and fear.

—But Paris, I...

—Yes, what is it? You are a slave, but you also have a chance to participate. Don't forget that, as fate would have it, I'm your temporary mistress and if I say you can do it... you can.

—Anyway, it's just a test.

—One chance, Eric. So we can see if you're really as good as you say you are.

I can't believe Paris has found a way for me to play soccer, beyond her backyard. Just like I've always dreamed of. It's true, it's just a trial, but I have a chance to enjoy what I love and to prove myself. I will be able to kill the bug of wanting to compete. Of wanting to be the same as those I've always seen on the screen.

—Besides, you are their best option. Slave and, a priori, without monetary aspirations.

—How?

—Nowadays, the soccer world only moves if there is a lot of money. Any player aspires to a salary that is too high. Brox City is a very modest team, so they will go for those who offer them a good combination of quality and price.

I embrace Paris, expressing my gratitude for this great gift she has given me. All those old ideas of running away that Clarise embedded in me are gone. I have full confidence in Paris, knowing that, if she achieves her goals regarding her research and future, I will achieve mine, the longed-for freedom. That is why I wish for us to return as soon as possible to resume the mission for which I was bought.

—When do we jump back in time?

—Dad is reconfiguring the clocks, making that machine more accurate. I don't know when we can do it. But soon.

—You see, Paris... I've been thinking about... your research...

—Oh, yeah? Tell me about it, see if you can get me out of the rut I'm in.

—I can't make a connection between my mother, your mother, and the Goddess. But something tells me that they match perfectly. That there is a common thread in all of this. The Priestess is just a character in a book who lived many years ago; Lunetta, my mother, is no more...The only option we have left is...to find Julie, your mother. She will know where we must, where you must, continue.

Paris changes her countenance. She returns to seriousness, and I see the depth in her eyes. She loses her gaze.

—It's not that easy, Eric. I've wanted to see her ever since she left. I've tried to track her down at least a million times. But all to no avail. I don't know, we don't know—she means her father, Mr. Stonecraft—nothing, absolutely nothing, about her.

I take her hands and get her to look directly into my eyes, though she quickly pulls them away.

—Julie...she went in search of the Goddess and the Priestess, didn't she? Didn't it say that in her letter? Well, that must be where she is. With them.

—Don't you understand? All religion in the Provinces is forbidden. There's hardly anything left of those communities. You yourself come from a slave plantation and do not know the Goddess.

—We don't all know her, but many others do, on the sly. And they keep quiet. Paris, I know where we have to start.

—Go ahead, but all we're going to find is a dead end....

—The first step is to visit Diego Marquez.

—The smuggler? Are you crazy? He almost killed us! Don't you remember him anymore?

—He knew the Goddess! He knew that my handkerchief —I raise my hand for him to see it— is not a fake. Didn't you see the glint in his eyes when he saw it? It is a sacred object for them. Diego Marquez knows much more than he has told you so far. Those books...he's only done it to get money. As you can see, they have been of little help. I am sure that, if he wants, he can take us directly to some community of... believers of the Goddess. And while you're at it, he can give you a book that might help your research.

—Maybe so, but... how do we confront him...?

—We will have to convince him or give him what he asks for.

We don't waste time. I put on a T-shirt while she goes to pick up her backpack. She's not going anywhere without it. I quickly think of some technique to seduce Diego Marquez, the smuggler. I can only think of money, but I don't have a dollar and I don't think Paris can come up with the amount that will satisfy this guy. I take the Bible that my mother left me. Nothing in this world is more valuable than that.

Paris smiles at me when I get to the living room and urges me to leave the house. It's noon and Mr. Stonecraft will be up for lunch in a moment, together, as we do on days when Paris doesn't leave the house.

—Wait a minute —I say— Aren't you going to say goodbye to your father or something? I don't know, tell him...

—That's fine, Eric. Let's go!

It's a long walk, several miles, from the boardwalk Paris's house faces to the city's poorest people's market. There where New America ends abruptly, between cliffs and mountains.

—Nervous? —I say to make the journey more pleasant.

—Terrified. I'm not as sure about this as you are....

—Trust me, for once. We can give this whole thing a boost. —I'm talking in general. To hers and mine. What we care about and what we're fighting for. —We just have to... get it right.

We pass the place where I kissed her, without thinking, Paris. I avoid making any of my typical comments about the situation because she might take it the wrong way. I feel like we are much closer now. Paris and I. I'm not talking about something physical, that now we walk closer together, I brush her skin with my fingers or even, sometimes, my nose can smell her hair up close. No. It's something sentimental like we are a team. Each one with his virtues, each one with his skills. As if we have internalized the ultimate goal so much that it has helped us forge a bond that goes beyond a simple owner-slave contract. That's not forgetting, of course, the distinct place we both belong. I feel that Paris and I now, are closer than ever. And I like it that way.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The market is deserted. Only the skeletons of the aluminum, iron, and wooden stalls remain. No more children are running around, looking for toys, candy, and fun. Gone is the smell of food and sweat in the air. There is no one. Only our footsteps run along the street of a market that seems to end at the bottom, in the sea. We spot, however, the encampment of many merchants who live by coming and going, touring the Provinces, selling and buying products, in a worthy attempt to make a living.

—What if he is not here? —she asks. I notice in her voice that fear of delving into the depths of the Goddess' religion, where her mother may have been lost.

—We will wait for him. We won't move until that damn smuggler shows up.

I quickly glance around the empty, ghostly market stalls to later see Paris sitting on the weather-worn asphalt, tired. She is stretching her legs. The sun is very tight as she looks at me, squinting her eyes. I approach her and, from above, try to shade her with my body. Paris laughs. I like that smile. Suddenly, something ignites inside me, and I walk straight toward the merchants' camp.

—Eric! Eric! Wait! —Paris comes after me— What are you supposed to be doing?

—Diego must be around here somewhere. He lives here. —I answer resolutely, thinking logically. We just have to find his damn van. I think it had blue stripes on the side...

—Eric, a lot of people live here. There are a lot of four-wheeled pneumatic vehicles that travel by touching the ground. Two or three on each of these...streets.

I ignore Paris' warnings. Something inside me tells me I'm on the right track. We cross numerous makeshift alleys, artificially created by the merchants themselves as they park their vehicles, trying to make a comfortable home for a week, two, or a month. Then, it would be time to pack up and hit the road again in search of a new place.

My feet tread on dry sandstone as we pass tents of all sizes and all colors of old and dilapidated caravans. I see people free, to and fro, but who are of little means, living among what appears to be squalor and even filth. Some look at us strangely, probably because of our clothes and because everyone knows everyone here. We pass by stalls that go from vehicle to vehicle, where families hang out their clothes to dry. There are different fires everywhere, where pots of food are heated. I look at the dirty faces of the children playing, not quite understanding the world they live in. They play at being adults, with the beach on the horizon as a backdrop. I raise my head and see the immensity of the sea.

—Let's go to the beach, Mike! —says a little colored boy.

If this is freedom, if being free is this, I don't want to be free. There will be a lot of money moving here, but I wouldn't like to live like this. It seems that life, time, miles, and sun have blurred the faces of some of the merchants and their wives, judging by the wrinkles on young bodies. Their looks convey concern, pain, and suffering.

—Eric, it can be dangerous. —Paris warns me, remembering the altercation we already had in this place with the smuggler. I think she's also intimidated by the eyes on us.

—Don't worry. Trust me. —I turn to Paris and try to reassure her. She's sweating from the heat. —If you think about it, we don't have a choice—. She looks at me and nods.

I wait for her to reach me. Paris closes her eyes and rests her head on my chest, taking a breath. I open my hands, not sure what I should do. Whether to hug her or let her do the same, if she wants to, I feel peace at the feel of Paris.

I open my eyes, worried, when I hear a “click” behind me, a sign that a gun of bullets has been loaded. A second later, I feel the cold touch of steel on the back of my neck.

—I told you I didn't want to see you around here anymore. —Bingo. We have found Diego Marquez more like he's found us.

I raise my palms slowly as I turn to him. We are defenseless. I stand in front of Paris. Diego approaches and points his gun at my forehead. Great.

—Where the hell are you two going again? No one who doesn't belong to the roadside traders' guild can get through the market. I bet I'm not the only one who neglected his lunch when he heard you two wandering around. —We looked at the vehicles and their guests, leaning out of doors and windows as if they were attending a show.

—It's all right, Diego! We just want to talk to you. Put the gun down, please. By the Goddess. —Paris pleads, even more frightened than I am.

—Daughter, don't name the Goddess in vain. What do you want this time? More books? Maybe rob me? Knock me unconscious again? —By the looks of it, he doesn't forget our last encounter. It's no wonder.

I try to separate myself from the gun and Diego, backing away without lowering my hands. My eyes keep moving, trying to control everything. I look at him, at his fingers on the trigger, at the black hole through which a bullet can come out and cause my death. This situation is not pleasant. This feeling. That gun is worse than the electric shocks that, at least, I can endure. I have already checked it out.

—I don't think this is a good place to talk. —I point him to the market traders' camp since many of his companions may be aware of what's going on. —There are too many secrets that may come to light. —I take advantage of what I say to raise the book of my mother's Bible.

—By the Holy Priestess! How do you have a book of such caliber? Put that away, boy!—he puts down his gun. He stops threatening my life. Diego Márquez looks to the sides of the street, towards the caravans, in case someone has seen my most prized possession—. You're going to have problems. And not only with me.

—Let us talk to you. Ask you questions and answer you. Diego... that's all we want. When have I ever lied to you? I'm your best customer! —Paris appeals to all the money the smuggler has earned thanks to her—. I've given you thousands of dollars in exchange for practically nothing.

Diego Márquez remains thoughtful for a few seconds as if he wants to recall all the times he and Paris had exchanged money, products, and words to check if what she says is true. It is. In the end, Diego keeps his gun in the belt of his pants and signals for us to follow him. I sigh in relief and make way for Paris. I realize that the tense moment has left my mouth dry, and a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead.

Smuggler Diego Marquez guides us to the area where his caravan and van are located. The one where he keeps his merchandise and where we had a little mishap. He makes us climb into his old and rusty caravan, a rather small space where he lives and keeps everything that makes up a home. I avoid noticing the dirt in the kitchen and the old rags lying around. Diego removes some clothes from the small table and the half-finished food and tries to tidy up the living room. Then he asks us to take a seat.

—So, what do you want to know? —He spreads out his hands as if waiting for our questions. Then he puts them around his waist, expectantly.

—All that brings us here is this Bible—I show it to him again. —. It was my mother's, as was the Priestess's handkerchief. It's the only thing I have left of hers. That's why I've come to cleanse my honor and hers. I am no thief. Slave, yes, but always very honorable. Look —I approach him and open the first page of the Bible— it is signed by my mother. In her handwriting, she wrote a few sentences of dedication for me. Go ahead—. I invite him to read it, letting him delve into my intimacies. Let's see if this way I gain his trust.

—And where is your tattoo? —He replies.

—My tattoo...? —I look at Paris with a poker face.

Diego Marquez raises one of his hands and shows us his wrists. He closes his eyes tightly, and a drawing emerges on his skin that both Paris and I have seen before: two crescent moons enclosing a cross.

—All the followers of the Goddess and the Priestess have it, it is the initial rite. You don't. And as far as I know, neither does she.

—You have to understand us. We barely knew the Goddess two months ago, Diego. —Paris intervenes, trying to appease him. —She's inevitably crossing into our lives, and we're figuring out what that might mean.

—I'm sorry, boy. I can trust you, slave, but I can't trust her. I never have. —His words don’t surprise me. I already knew that. But Paris seems to feel a weight on her shoulders as if she feels guilty for trusting the wrong person. All the help that smuggler seemed to have given her was just a lie. Paris and her innocence.

—I know—I say—those books you've always sold her, at so many dollars each...But you're wrong about one thing: she's just...looking for information, investigating. Trying to find out what happened before, in the Collapse. Why and how we became what we are. Why we live in this unjust and unequal society, is useful for me and people like you. If we find out why, we will know how to transform things. And the Goddess has a major role in all this. It can be the basis for the future.

—Nonsenses and fantasies. Things cannot be changed. The United Provinces will never end slavery or make way for the Goddess. She—point to Paris—like many of the elite, she's just playing games. With you, especially. She'll have fun for a while, then she'll get tired and report you to the authorities. Believe me, unfortunately, it's not the first time I've seen something like this.

—She's different. Paris, no. She's sticking her neck out on this, too.

—Yes, but she won't get it cut off when you're found out. You'll be the one to blame. —Diego answers with disdain—. The truth is, I don't know why slaves defend their masters so strongly if they are the same ones who are squeezing them more and more every day.

—Look, Diego, we just want to go deeper into the Goddess and the Priestess, we want to...unite. Maybe you can help us in the Paris investigation. Maybe that might start to change things.

—They can't, boy. Only the Goddess has that gift. —I roll my eyes at Paris. I'm pissed off at that argument. The Goddess seems to be everywhere but never makes an appearance.

—Actually—Paris, who seemed to have remained mute, like a spectator to the conversation between the smuggler and me, shuts up—we've come looking for someone. She has been missing for years as if the earth had swallowed her up. She was looking for the Goddess, and I don't know if she made it. Something tells me she did. —Paris slips her fingers into the opening of her backpack and pulls out her mother's letter. She, too, bares her intimacies.

—By the Priestess herself! —Diego Marquez fusses as he reads the letter. —Your mother is Julie? Julie Bell?

Paris nods, closing her eyes as if it pains her soul to hear her mother's name and surname from those lips.

—Do you know her? —I ask quickly. Paris, excited, has become engrossed.

—I... I knew her. Years ago, I mean. But unfortunately, I can't tell you about that time or show you the way to her. Only the Goddess, and in her name the Priestess, can.

Despite the contradictory nature of Diego Marquez's words, Paris's face seems to rise to madness. She gets upset, and I see in her eyes that the almost always latent thunderstorm has been unleashed and seems to whip up the caravan with force.

—Diego, please. —Paris approaches the man with a dark complexion and black beard. She touches him, wanting to seem closer. I guess she wants to convey to him everything she is feeling. —I have money if that's what you want. —She clumsily and tearfully reaches into her backpack for a handful of dollars.

—No, daughter, I've taken enough money from you already. I don't want it. I don't know much more about Julie...there came a point when she decided to come and go. Back and forth. Cruising the Provinces, helping everyone, guided by the Goddess and the Priestess. She saved me, too. —Diego scratches his beard while his pupils dilate. He is remembering times gone by.

Paris' face is a poem. She clenches her mouth and eyes, shining with tears that are about to flow. We have stayed so close to her mother...So close to knowing more answers to all our questions...I conclude that Diego is a follower of the Goddess. Of the Priestess. And that he knows more about the religion, about the communities of the Goddess, than he has told us. Maybe even about Julie Bell.

—We thank you, Diego. But maybe we can find some clues...in the Goddess communities...I'm sure...

—I haven't forgotten about you, boy. —He interrupts me—. Nor your handkerchief. You'll have a lot of explaining to do if you get to...you know what I mean. —He shuts up because he knows he's talking too much.

—Take us with you, please—. Paris asks him.

—Impossible. I don't know or trust either of you. Besides, in this kind of thing, I am not the one who has the last word nor the one who decides.

—Is it the Goddess who does it? —I answer ironically, rolling my eyes again.

—That's right.

—Well—I grit my teeth and show him my Bible and handkerchief—the Goddess and the Priestess have already chosen us.

—Don't even dream of it, boy. Go home and forget all about it. The Goddess is not in the mood for nonsense. —Paris looks at the floor, thoughtful. Since Diego Marquez has spoken of her mother, she has remained reflective—. The only thing I can do for you is this—Diego Márquez goes to his bookshelf, takes out a book, cleans the cover of dust, and hands it to Paris—. By way of compensation. There have been more people like you, crazier perhaps. It's a book about the world after the Collapse. A lot of stories, in my opinion, but maybe you might be interested in it. Take it as a gift after so many disappointments. Now, please, both of you get out of here. I hope I never see you again—. He opens the door of his caravan for us.

—You can't leave us like this... —I tell him as I climb down from his home.

—I'm afraid so. And keep that thing tied around your wrist because I won't let you leave with it a third time.

We make our way, with no other choice, back home along the promenade. We don't talk the whole way. I'm a little angry because of the smuggler's attitude and because I haven't got any clues to go on. I need to get more into the Bible and the Goddess to understand my mother and find out what happened to her. Paris is reading the book. She doesn't lift her head out of it. It seems to have “The Statue of Liberty” as the title.

—Hey, Eric, does “United States of America” ring a bell? I'm sure I've read something like that somewhere else...