On Sundays, we girls gather for the Spaghetti Western double bill. Bound in coarse woollens and thin overcoats, we head to the Bytowne Cinema, hauling ourselves over snow drifts thick enough to fell a horse. We glance shadows in darkened balconies not meant for us. We sneak scraggly dogs through the rust-pocked side door to lie blood warm at our feet. They lick butter from our fingers, chew snow clumps from mittens.

The curtains draw open and a dry must welts the back of our throats. On the screen, men stretch twenty feet tall. They rest on their heels and squint towards the horizon. Our faces draw down the heat of that Tabernas Desert sun. Trumpets fire staccato and the Man with No Name drops to the scorched earth. In an abandoned mine, he coughs dust, collects his strength. His face fills the frame, watching us watching him. 

Outside, the snow persists. We scrawl Sergio Forever! inside school notebooks and count days in the margins in short straight strokes. We narrow our eyes when called upon to answer questions. We've been cautioned. We lean supple backs against lollipop-bright steel lockers, uncertain what we're waiting for. We are not mercenaries. We cannot be bought. In the darkened cinema, our exhalations hang as ice fog in the projector light.