Outside the two dogs snarled and drooled. Tied up with a heavy chain and spiked collar, they had been in a real frenzy for several hours. The livestock had been brought in, all the shutters of the house were closed as well, and inside, where it was warm and safe, a scent of rust, smoke, and human sweat floated in the air. The younger children had been sent to the house of an aunt and uncle and the older ones were lying in bed pretending they were asleep. Their father had returned from the tavern bellowing, herded along by his mother-in-law, whom he’d also like to fit with a spiked collar, a small device for controlling such a bad-natured, nervous beast.

María was already in labor and the seventh son or daughter had been on the way for hours. That might have been what the animals sensed, uncomfortable in their enclosed spaces since early evening when they had to be brought in. There was also the full moon, the prediction of an electric storm, the type that sets the village of Esgos on fire instead of flooding the whole area with water and mud.

Come on, you silly little dunce, murmured the old lady while she hopped along the big rocks guided by the glow of the full moon. A lot lighter on her feet than he was, what’s going to become of him, already seeing double, pitching back and forth at that hour, drunk and smelling like he’d been in a canteen. Come along, shitface, or we won’t make it back and we have to call for the priest, wherever he is.

Then the night is split by a sharp lightning bolt that sounds like stakes collapsing, the crazed howl of a beast, and another, more human one that joins them in a horrible thrust.

Here at last. That’s what the old woman says as she pushes the door open. It’s not clear whether she’s referring to the son-in-law, to the new baby, to the fire or to the wolf.

María. We already have a María and we can’t name all of them the same as the cows in the field so they’ll come when they’re called, right? Catalina. That’s a chicken’s name. Flor. Too short, they’d call her Floriña and that’s a name for a prostitute. Prudencia. Stop it, woman. Isolda. What? Hermelinda. Or Micaela, like you. Nah. Anuncia? Why? Because of all the signs. Shit. Manuela. Manueliña. Niniña. Nela.