One morning, Don Emilio stormed into the barn where Mateo was working. “Enough of this foolishness! You’ve dug up half my east field like a gopher. If you’re looking for sympathy, boy, you’ve come to the wrong—”
It was the worst in a century. The river shrank to a muddy trickle. Don Emilio’s prized cattle began to fall. The cornfields cracked like old pottery. The bank sent a letter: without a harvest, the land would be seized. For the first time, Don Emilio looked old. He sat on his porch at night, staring at the empty sky, whispering, "Milagro... necesitamos un milagro." Un Yerno Milagroso
Mateo led him to the highest point of the farm—a rocky hill overlooking the dried riverbed. From there, Mateo pointed west. “Look. The Sierra Madre.” One morning, Don Emilio stormed into the barn
Then came the drought.