Moses nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait. Tell Admiral Morales—the white flag planted at Haifa Port is still there."
Lieutenant Alvarez crouched in the coffee fields of Chiapas, pinching a bean between his fingers. It was fully ripe, soft to the touch, with a thin skin that broke easily. He tossed it into the basket and picked another.
In the distance, an old man approached. It was the same one who, for three years, had held up a photo of his son by the shores of Lake Tiberias.
For three years, his arms had swollen, his wrists covered in plasters, yet he never put it down. Now he was here in Mexico, in Chiapas, picking coffee beans. His son was dead, his home was gone, his land lay fallow. Yet he came.
"Lieutenant, the beans have turned red."
"Once they're red, they should be picked. Pick them, dry them a bit, and send them back. Send them to the shore of Lake Tiberias, to where the white flag is planted."
The old man squatted, pinching a bean. It was fully ripe, soft.
