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Save for the swish-swish of the goats wending through the dry brush of the Ecuadorian countryside, all is silent atop the hill.Tonight, the shadows grow longer and longer until darkness finally comes to La Cienega. Once, years ago, the laughter of children ricocheted through the valley below, echoing through the village streets, between the stilted homes, carrying all the way up the hill, to the rows and rows of wooden crosses.Before long the men started chopping trees and burning the wood to make charcoal, which they’d bag up and barter on street corners in surrounding towns. I’m alone.’ So they can join me.” Death is always coming after you, he says. But sometimes, when he visits his mother and father buried on the hill, Quimí Quimí looks back over the town. His faith is God and devils and spirits and his duty is simple: “I don’t want to leave this town abandoned, because some people say that where you were born….” his voice trails off. That is why.” Once a month, a truck comes to La Cienega and parks in the main street.But then the trees thinned, and soon no one in the neighboring towns needed charcoal. They took horse-drawn carts or hopped in the back of a pickup and left La Cienega for the biggest city, Guayaquil. And soon, the mothers and fathers followed, taking the children with them. Sometimes, when his house is dark and silent, he listens for the spirits that walk in the valley. A while later, he looks out the window again and mutters to himself. Eight of the 12 villagers come to the truck, climbing into the bed for the hour-long ride on windy, gravel roads to the nearby town of Progreso.

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This story originally appeared in Latterly, a new magazine for international reporting.But he hasn’t seen a deer in two years, except in his dreams. He talks about God and the devil and the deer that elude him. Maria died in the spring after a decade of lying on a wood floor in a corner of their home. His sister, Hortencia Mateo Quimí, rarely comes down from the hill.Lying in a fishnet hammock in an empty home of creaking wooden slats, he closes his eyes. Before Maria’s death, she sat by her aunt and brushed her hair, talked to her and propped pillows behind her back.’ I say, ‘Yes, but on weekends only.’” He seldom sees his 14 grandchildren, his seven children or his wife.They all live 65 kilometers away in Guayaquil, the country’s largest city, where the people talk fast and dance even faster. He says his mumbled jokes and slow sway to staticky Latin tunes fit better here, where even the occasional passing car drives slowly. And they both know he can never join her in the city. Who would look out the window at the grazing cattle and the day-old goat with wobbly legs?The few children who visit their grandparents here skip by the 60 dilapidated homes — made of the same guasango wood as the crosses on the hillside graves — and peek into the eight that remain inhabited.