The kind that feels almost cold.

She sat in the back seat of the dark sedan, her small suitcase beside her, and watched San José thin into winding roads and climbing hills.

Tropical green spread on every side.

The sky looked lower here, as if the clouds had decided not to stay above the mountains but to rest inside them.

Teresa pressed her purse to her lap and tried to steady her breathing.

For forty-five years she had believed she knew the shape of her marriage.

Not every secret, perhaps.

Nobody knows every private corner of another person.

But the shape of it.

The essential truth of it.

The ways they had suffered.

The sacrifices they had made.

The small humiliations of getting older without money and with too much illness.

Now there was a lawyer in Costa Rica telling her that none of what had happened at the funeral was accidental.

Moisés drove carefully, as if he understood that she had not merely crossed a country.