“Look what I can do!” my daughter Lupita says as she holds the long metal pipe she’s found up to her mouth.
She takes a deep breath and hollers a trumpeting toot through the hollow length.
“A beautiful tune!” I say to her, rummaging through the sands in search of anything useful or valuable.
A radioactive bomb site is no place to bring a child; even still, I’m pleased that my lonely little girls is keeping herself amused.
“It’s as noble and resounding as the horns that toppled the walls of Jericho.”
She beams. Then her bright little face becomes serious.
“Mama,” she whispers through the pipe. “I have a secret to tell you.”
“Tell me, *mi querida*,” I reply.
I lean my ear close to the open end of the pipe.
I feel her tongue tickle my earlobe.
I jerk my head away, and Lupita laughs and laughs with a voice that isn’t her own.