They were on the road for seven long days. Papà trudged forward like a burro, a donkey. After a day’s walk, he drank his night away. What were they really heading toward? Sal expected to see one long beach when they reached Cadiz, but the place seemed to be a puzzle of alleys and roads leading to the port. Like most of the other southern towns in Spain, North Africans—Moors—with black faces, turbaned heads and thick accents congregated in the streets. Papà seemed to know his way around the neighborhoods. At the end of a narrow alleyway, he disappeared behind a low wall. Not really a barrier, just a pile of stones and a collection of rubbish. Even the gate was only a few twigs tangled in a low opening.
“Esperamè, wait here,” Papà said.
“What’s over there?” Sal said. The boys peered through the gate toward a sandy slope with a crooked house on one side.
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