"I don't care if it was an accident! Your stupid burro ate the last of my bread ration!"

Alma rubbed her temples. They had been going on like this for almost an hour at that point, not letting her get a word in.

"Señor García, if you could please calm down-" she started.

"Calm down? I have a family of four! They need to eat! Shall I feed my Carlos donkey shit? Because that's what his bread's become. ¡Pura mierda!" shouted Osvaldo the milkman.

"Why don't you give your share to your son? You could afford to miss that meal," retorted Luís the farmer.

"Señor Márquez, if you could just-" Alma began again. Her breasts twinged painfully as Julieta finished suckling.

"¡Hijo de puta!"

"¡Malparido!"

"¡Cállense! Is there any way Señor Márquez can pay you back?" Adjudicating disputes was Alma's least favorite duty. Closing her eyes, she hoped that Martín had chopped down enough wood to finish the Rodríguez house. She quite enjoyed overseeing the construction of new homes. Often, despite protests that it was no work fit for a young woman, especially in her condition, she joined in. Woodworking was something she had seen Pedro do often, and as grueling as the work seemed to be, it comforted her somewhat to know that she could carry on his legacy in this small way.

"Unless it's bread, I want nothing from him," Osvaldo crossed his arms.

"Be reasonable, Señor. We don't have enough bread. And Tía Rosalia is spending day in and day out in the kitchen trying to make more," Alma pleaded. As if she weren't exhausted enough, physically and emotionally. Alma and Padre Manuel had planned the last of the funerals earlier that day. Pedro's was the day before: a private, fleeting affair. There was nothing to bury. Pedro's body lay beyond the mountains out of reach. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, Alma thought. At least she wouldn't have to see his once handsome face shrouded forever in the hands of death.

"That's not my problem." Alma rolled her eyes. Didn't these idiots realize that they were in a crisis? Yet she had to concede that Osvaldo García had a point. It was all very good and true to blame a lack of manpower and resources for the lack of bread, but the issue remained: they had no bread.

"We'll figure out a solution by tomorrow," she declared. Both men looked unhappy, but grudgingly left.

Josefa started crying. Alma sighed. Pepa was a sweet child, but she often cried for reasons Alma could not fathom. She can't be hungry; I just fed her. Does she need to be changed? Please, Pepita, just stop crying!

Later, Alma stumbled to the kitchen. Tía Rosalia, a plump severe woman who everyone addressed as such regardless of their actual relation to her, was kneading a lump of dough.

"Hola, Tía" Alma greeted, taking another lump of dough from the large mixing bowl near the sink and starting to knead. Alma retired to bed that night with flour in her hair and dough in her nails, but at least Osvaldo's children would eat tonight.