“Eva, Katarin. Vámonos.” I don’t understand how Lorena’s voice remains under control. Her words flow smoothly, but I still listen closely, expecting a waver in her instruction. My feet do not budge. I just stare, dumbfounded, at the red snake protruding from the fragile, balding six-year-old named Madelin. The glossy object hangs limply from a surgical slit below her navel. It drips a yellowish liquid, and a pesky fly circles persistently in an attempt to land. Kat�...