“I’m not a mechanic,” Juliana said, pulling out her phone. No signal. Of course.
At midnight, they rolled into Jericó. The whole town was waiting, not for Mass, but for them. The new mayor—a slick, university-educated fool—had tried to cancel the chiva’s parade. But there was La Espantapájaros , grille covered in tinsel, speakers blasting “Lista en Medellín,” and on the roof, a woman in a torn designer shirt, holding a bottle of aguardiente like a scepter. Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona
“A la izquierda, el pasado. A la derecha, la gloria.” “I’m not a mechanic,” Juliana said, pulling out
Juliana looked at the engine. It was a Frankenstein of wire, tape, and Don Pepe’s prayers. A hose was cracked. The radiator was leaking a sad green tear onto the dirt. “I’m not a mechanic