When the dogs started barking, Papá would lock the windows and Mamá would check the wood around the door. She would wrap me in blankets so I wouldn't be as scared when she blew out the candles.

"Benito will scare them off," she would whisper. "He's a good dog."

I wanted to believe it, but Papá also said the rats were getting bigger. He said they were evolving. When I asked Mamá what that meant, she asked if I remembered painting before the paint in the village ran out.

"It's like how you got better at painting Benito," she said. "It means the rats are getting better at being rats."

"How couldn't they, with all the things they're eating up above," said Papá.

Mamá's voice held her glare. "Enrique."

"What's above?" I asked, but I knew they wouldn't tell me. Everyone in the village said the same thing, if they answered at all.

Mamá just stroked my hair.

"Don't go up there," said Papá. "It's burning."