An expectant hush fell over the crowd. Jem's father, Abraham, stood on a scorched cinder block, as if he needed more help to loom over us. Under the grey sky, he looked like a bear from the north, his broad shoulders and tall frame clothed in fur that everyone said was bearskin. But his face, though fierce, was warm and soft with pride.

"Grillo Negro," he said, this time as if to a loved one. "Welcome. Welcome grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, aunts, uncles, cousins. Welcome, friends. Welcome, family. Today, we are celebrating. Every child in Grillo Negro is a child of Grillo Negro, and first it is time to commemorate a very special year indeed. This month, Graciela Castillo Atenco, daughter of Liliana Atenco Mendoza and my son Adán Castillo Vásquez, turns one. Miguel, would you bring your sister here?"

The crowd parted to admit my nephew. He shuffled up the makeshift aisle, matching his sister's steps as she clung to his hand and beamed at everyone around her. When the two of them reached Abraham, he crouched so he was closer to their height. Miguel plopped down and sat Graciela in his lap. She giggled.

"Graciela," said Abraham. He laid his hands on her shoulders, and now she sat still. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I welcome you."

Scattered members of the crowd touched their foreheads, chests, and each shoulder. Their murmurs carried like a prayer.

Abraham continued. "Our books and cathedrals were lost to fire, but they were but a vessel for the true Spirit, the God who watches over us from above. He is the keeper of our children, who came into the world as a child so that we may be blessed. May He be with you, keep your body, bless your thoughts"—he moved his hands to her head, then removed them and took her tiny hands in his—"and watch over the work you do, so that you will never doubt that you are safe and that you are loved. I say this on behalf of our village, Grillo Negro: you are our family, and we will keep His promise to you."

Another murmuring swept the crowd.

Abraham released Graciela's hands and stood again. "And Emma."

The aisle had not fully closed, and it opened again as Emma retraced Miguel and Graciela's steps. She stopped beside the other children.

"Emma," said Abraham. "Today we will mark your fifteenth year, as you become a grown and responsible member of Grillo Negro. You are a gift to our village, and in return, we have a gift for you. Keep it with you, and always remember that wherever you came from and wherever you go, you belong here and we will always be here for you."

He produced a necklace of thin sinew. From it hung a pendant identical to that worn by every village member: a pebble etched on one side with the design of a stylized insect. Soot-darkened resin filled the lines, hardened like stone itself. Grillo Negro. A black cricket.

Abraham held it tenderly. "This was made by Angelita's grandmother before she passed, in hopes that her granddaughter would bless us with a child. Sadly, this would not come to pass, but God had other ideas. We found you the same day Angelita lost her pregnancy."

Found by Elías in the middle of the desert, frolicking with a coywolf pup. There was no trace of who had left her, despite her age: two years old at most. Rodolfo and Elías had raised her.

"From your family," said Abraham, and tied the pendant around her neck. Then he turned her around and gestured for Miguel and Graciela to rise. "Grillo Negro, these are your people. This is their day. Shall we give them their party?"

Music burst from one end of the crowd. Flutes and hand drums and the staccato pulse of gourd maracas found a rhythm and swelled into melody. Emma ran to fling herself into my uncles' arms, grinning from ear to ear. A dance floor appeared. I headed for the fires, where people were queueing up with bowls at the ready.

Miguel and Rosa had disappeared after Miguel returned Graciela to my sister, but Rosa's squeal indicated they wouldn't be gone long. They burst from their parents' tent, clutching fistfuls of sticks. Either Angelita had gone overboard, or else adults were being coerced into the fun of the colibríes this time. Tied about the end of each stick was a bundle of feathers. Miguel and his sister spread out and began distributing these feather wands to anyone who would take one, and to some who would not. Elías accepted a stick and tapped Rodolfo with its feathered end. People burst out laughing. Not to be outdone, ancient abuelo Godofredo tapped his wife Margarita, who pretended to look scandalized. "Diez madres, the twins were enough! If we're having another child at this age, you can carry it yourself."

Colibríes were meant to bestow health, luck, or fertility on the recipient—and preferably all three—though just what imitation hummingbirds had to do with pregnancy was beyond me. I got my food and navigated back to Lupe and my other cousins. Something whacked my leg. I looked down to find Graciela sitting on the ground with a colibrí clenched in her fat little fist. She beamed up at me, then flailed her arms and whacked me again. A pair of hands swept her up.

"Looks like she wants cousins." My sister Liliana had a twinkle in her eye. "So, how are things with you and Jem?"

I forced a pained smile. "Lili."

"If you say so." She laughed. "Let's go find you some food, hm?" she said to Graciela, and sallied away, bouncing her daughter on her hip. I rejoined my cousins.

"So, you've been marked?" said Lupe with a grin.

I stuffed a bite of tamale in my mouth. "Shut up."

"He still likes you, you know. And I know you still like him back."

"Lupe, we've been over this."

She gave an exaggerated sigh. We had been over this. And I wasn't in the mood. "Fine."

We ate in a silence that somehow dampened the music, the crackle of the fires, and the laughter of the villagers. Couples whirled on the dance floor, their feet tracing rhythms that were part passed down but mostly invented. Even our songs came from after the day the world burned. Most of them, anyway. Colibríes bopped heads, chests and stomachs. I cringed a little each time.

Lupe didn't seem to notice. She bounced her feet to the music, a smile of nothing but contentment on her face. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

I swallowed my last bite and tasted ash as I spotted Jem making his way towards me. He stopped in front of us, and I was aware of every cousin's gaze on me.

Jem's eyes made a break for the ground. He dragged them up again. "Um... will you dance with me?"

He held out his hand. He must have been practicing.

"Maybe later," I said. I'd been practicing, too. "I'm kind of tired."

He swallowed hard and nodded. There was a pause that dragged on for too long.

"Okay. I'll ask later," he said, and turned and left like something had bitten him. Rosa caught him near the fires and offered him a colibrí. He took it carefully and thanked her. It might have been a trick of the light, but I could have sworn he looked my way before the crowd swallowed him.

In the mayhem, I tipped by head back to the clouded sky. Adriana Atenco Mendoza. They said Atenco wasn't Spanish, but just what it was remained a mystery. It was half the reason I wanted to find people in this desert. Other people might have clung to what Fuego had robbed us of the day the world burned. We were the human equivalent of a tortilla marron, stitched together by happenstance, celebrating in ways we'd entirely made up, telling stories and tracking lineages that only went back a hundred years. If the founders had known we would wander the desert for four generations without sight of another human being, maybe they would have passed on more of their culture.

Jem and I weren't related, but I had made up my mind when the village lost its fifth baby in two years, three years ago. The other half of my reason was simple: beneath all the pomp and the playacting, the flavours, the parties, and the inventions, Grillo Negro was a shell draining out from the inside. It was a ramshackle assembly of people forced together by disaster, with no choice in the matter and nowhere to go. As much as I envied my sister for her kids, I wasn't about to throw my heart into our fragile attempt at constructing a heritage.

Grillo Negro was dying, and I wasn't going to prolong its pain.

A/N: If you've read this far and you like what you've read, you can support this work by pressing the little vote star in the top right (on the web) or bottom left (on the app) corner of each chapter. Not the one above this—that's just a photo. Votes go a long way in boosting a book on Wattpad, and I humbly admit they make an author's day.

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