The next day, Theo and I drove down to the factories, where they produced the products he had described and goods beyond that, too: hand creams and health powders and even a packet for making Abuela’s hot chocolate.

By the time we’d returned to Granja Mañana, it was after sunset, and the workers had gone home. I accompanied Theo to make a quick check of the orchards. I was walking slightly ahead of him when I heard the sound of rustling leaves. It could have just been a small animal, but I felt for my machete anyway. As I was doing that, a pod with the telltale signs of Monilia distracted me. I bent down to slice it off.

A second later, Theo yelled, “Anya, turn around!”

I thought Theo might have been joking, so I continued what I was doing.

“Anya!”

Still squatting, I turned my head over my shoulder. Behind me was a large man. The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing a mask; the second thing I noticed was the gun. The gun was pointed at my head, and I was sure I was going to die.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Theo running toward me with his machete out.

“Don’t!” I screamed. “Theo, go inside!” I didn’t want Theo to end up dead, too.

My scream must have startled the masked man because for one second he hesitated. The masked man turned just as Theo struck him on the shoulder with the blade of his machete. The gun went off. There was a silencer, so it made very little sound. I could see the spark of the gunfire. I could tell that Theo had been hit but I didn’t have time to figure out where. I picked up my own machete and I raised my arm. Without even thinking about it, I sliced off the masked man’s hand. It was his right hand, the hand that held the gun. It was tough, but my machete had just been sharpened and I’d had so much practice with the cacao pods. (Aside: In retrospect, it would feel like the moment I’d been training for since November.) The only major difference between slicing off a human hand and a cacao pod was the blood. So much blood. The blood sprayed across my face and my clothes, and for a moment, all I could see were out-of-focus spots of red. I wiped my eyes. The man had dropped his gun (and his hand) and I could see him clutching his wrist as he ran deep into the rain forest, into the dark. We were miles away from a hospital. He’d probably bleed to death. “Ffffffiiiiickerrrrr,” he howled. Or something like that, I couldn’t quite make it out.

I turned to where Theo lay on the ground.

“Are you okay?” I asked him. The light was fading, and I couldn’t see where he was bleeding. “I’m…”

“Where were you hit?” I asked him.

“I don’t know.” He moved his hand weakly in the general direction of his chest area, and my heart began to petrify.

“Theo, I have to go inside to get help.” He shook his head.

“Theo!”

“Listen to me, Anya. Don’t tell my mother what happened.”

“You’re being insane. I have to tell your mother what happened. I have to get you help.” Theo shook his head. “I am going to die.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Mama will blame you. It is not your fault, but she will blame you. Do not tell any of them who you are.”

Theo saying that made me sure it was my fault.

“I’m going now!” I pulled my hand from Theo’s grasp and I ran into the house.

The next several hours were a blur. Luz, Luna, and I put Theo on a stretcher we’d improvised out of bedsheets and then we dragged him to the truck and then we drove to the hospital, which was a half hour away. By that time, Theo had passed out.

I explained to Luz and Luna as best I could what had happened even though I couldn’t understand it myself.

When we got to the hospital, I repeated the story to the local police, and then they asked me questions, which Luna translated for me. No, I didn’t know the man. No, I didn’t see his face. No, I don’t know why he was in the orchard. Yes, I cut off his hand. No, I didn’t take it with me. It should still be on the ground with his gun.

“And your name?” one of the cops asked.

I didn’t answer right away so Luna answered for me. “She is Anya Barnum. She is staying with us in order that she might learn the cacao business. She is Theo’s very good friend and a dear friend of our cousin, and I do not like the way you are questioning her.”

Finally, the police left to go see if they could find the gun and the hand and the one-handed masked man.

Luna patted me on the arm. “It is not your fault,” she said. “We have many rivals in cacao. It’s never turned to violence before but … I don’t understand any of this!” Luna began to weep.

A doctor came out to talk to us. “The bullet ricocheted through his lung and his esophagus. Theo’s condition is serious, but he is stable for now,” the doctor said in Spanish. “You could go home if you like.”

“Is he awake?” Theo’s mother asked.

The doctor said that Theo’s family could go in, so I went out to the lobby to try to place a call.

It was nearly ten, which meant it was nearly eleven in New York. I knew it was dangerous to call as it could potentially lead the authorities right to me, but I needed to talk to Mr. Kipling. I needed to go home.

I dialed Mr. Kipling’s home number. Though it was late, he answered the phone immediately and I could tell he was completely awake. When I said who it was, he didn’t even sound surprised to hear from me.

“Anya, how did you find out so quickly?”

For a second, I was confused. I wondered if he had somehow heard about Theo Marquez being shot. “How did you?” I asked.

“I … Your sister, Natty, called me. She’s here with me right now.”

“Why would Natty call you? Why is Natty with you? Why isn’t Natty at home?”

“Wait,” Mr. Kipling said. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing. Why don’t you speak first.”

“Theobroma Marquez was shot. And I think the hit man was trying to kill me.” Mr. Kipling cleared his throat. “Oh, Anya, I’m so sorry.”

“I … I want to come home. I don’t want to bring any more trouble to the Marquezes. Even if I have to go to Liberty,” I added.

“I understand,” Mr. Kipling said in a distracted way. “What were you talking about before?” I asked.

“Anya, the situation here is very grave, and there’s no nice way for me to put this. Imogen Goodfellow is dead.”

I crossed myself. I could barely absorb this news. How could I be living in a world where Imogen Goodfellow was dead? Imogen, who loved paper books and who had taken such good care of Nana. Imogen, my friend.

“She died protecting your sister. There was an attack on the street outside the apartment, and Imogen came between Natty and a bullet. Imogen died on her way to the hospital. Natty was immediately brought to my house. She was hysterical, of course. She had to be sedated. Anya, are you still there?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Do you think the attack on me and the attack on Natty are related?” As I asked the question, I knew it was true.

“I fear they could be,” Mr. Kipling said. “Until I got your call, I had hoped the attack on your sister was just a random act of violence.”

“Someone trying to dispatch the children of Leonyd Balanchine?” Suddenly, I thought of my brother in Japan.

“Leo,” Mr. Kipling and I both said at the same time. “I’ll call Yuji Ono,” I said.

I hung up with Mr. Kipling and immediately placed another call. This time, to Yuji Ono. He didn’t pick up. I wanted to scream but I knew there were sick people trying to sleep in the hospital. How was it possible that I had no way of reaching my brother other than through Yuji Ono? I had put too much faith in this man, who—let’s face facts—I had barely known.

I was about to try Yuji Ono again when Luna tapped me on the shoulder. “Anya, Theo wants to see you now.”