Bartholomew struggled to move, but his limbs did not seem to belong to him. The sun climbed higher. His injuries throbbed with dull insistence.
"Help!" he groaned. It was faint, barely recognizable as a word.
"What? Another dead man?" The words were Spanish. The voice was that of a small child, curious and unafraid.
“Por favor, niño, ayúdame,” he said thickly. "Go to the city and bring help."
"Oh, no, I cannot bring anybody here. They will find the things I took and papa will beat me again."
"I promise no one will harm you if you bring help. Please, I may die if you don't."
"You talk an awful lot for a gringo muerto. I have things to do."
Bartholomew caught sight of a half-wild rose climber in the chapel garden. White roses.
"You -- you know la Señorita Alethia at the Orphanage? I am sure ... she would give you a sweet … if you ... pick the prettiest white rose on that bush over there and take it to her."