In Cartagena, Luis says, the beach is gray at dawn. He points to the barrel of his G3 when he says this, steel gray, he says. He smiles. The sand is white, he says, this color, tapping his teeth. And when the sun comes up on your right, man, it is a slow-motion explosion like in the movies, a big kerosene flash and then the water is sparkling gray and orange and red. Luis is full of shit, of course, but he can talk and it is true that he is the only one of our gallada who has seen the Caribbean. Who has been to Cartagena.

And the girls? Edwardo asks.

Luis tosses back his greasy, black hair. He knows we will wait for his answer. He is the oldest of us (except for Claudia who doesn’t count because she is a girl), and he has recounted this story many times with pleasure.

The girls, he says. He looks at me and it is proper, he is showing respect. Together we smirk at the immaturity of Edwardo.

No, says Claudia. The fishermen. Tell us the part—

The girls, Luis says, speaking over Claudia, they are the best in all of Colombia. They wear skirts up to here, like on MTV, and boots up to here, and it is not like the country, where the autodefensas will shoot them for it. They are taller and whiter and have beautiful teeth and can talk about real things. Nothing like here.

He pauses. Luis has grown a mustache that looks like it has been drawn on with wet charcoal, and now he strokes it with his thumb and finger. I remember a line from a movie.

With that mustache, I say, you look like a shit-eating faggot. Edwardo laughs happily. And it is you who would be shot for your long hair.

Luis ignores me. He says, speaking slowly—In Cartagena, everything is nothing like here.

We are five, including Claudia, and we are going downtown to do some business on behalf of Luis. Apart from me and Luis and Claudia and Edwardo, there is little Pedro, who walks behind the group with his hands in his torn pant pockets in order to fondle his testicles. It is not even funny any more.

I have not seen any of them, except for Claudia, in the last four months. Claudia-the only one who knows where I have been staying-told me yesterday about this business. I did not want to come, but she told me how strongly Luis insisted.

All of them look younger than I remember. Pedro is the only one who has grown—he looks like he has been seized by a fistful of hair and stretched two inches. I wait for him to catch up, and say to him, Ay, you are almost a man now!

Ask him if he has any hair on his pipi, says Edwardo.

Pedro keeps his hands in his pockets and does not react.

See, even now he is molesting it!

Come on, says Luis. He sounds distracted. Claudia is smiling to herself. I look away from her.

To do this business, there would usually be more of us, but our old gallada, the core of it anyway, is three short. Carlos was shot in the throat outside the Parque del Poblado: it was night and he was selling basuco to the crackheads when the rich kids came in their yellow Jeep and cleansed him. Salesio joined his elder brother in the local militia, where he sent back a photo of himself in a balaclava, holding an Uzi sub and a Berreta .45. You could see the shape of his stupid smile through the black cotton.

And then there is Hernando. I do not want to think about Hernando now.

We stop at the border of our barrio, in a dump at the bottom of a ridge. A thin ditch of water runs through the debris. Without a word, Pedro and Claudia take lookout positions. Luis and Edwardo straddle the sludge, one foot on either bank, and clear away the molding cardboard and plastic junk. Soon they uncover the nylon three-seater that we stole, months ago, from a public bus. They tip it forward to reveal the large concrete tunnel into which the water runs. I stand sentinel as they crawl, one by one, into the hole.