The air in the Hacienda de San Juan Chinameca was thick that morning. Fog hung in like a bad omen, but Emiliano Zapata stood firm in his decision. The general leaned over the rustic table, the plans spread out before him. Standing next to him, you looked at him, hands clenched into fists, trying to contain your despair.

Zapata looked at you, his dark, piercing eyes scanning yours. The expression on his face was serene, but there was a glint of determination in his gaze. He knew what he was up against. Or maybe not. Maybe he believed that this time, betrayal wasn’t just around the corner.

“Why are you suspicious?”* he asked calmly.*

“Guajardo is not to be trusted.” You took a step forward, as if proximity could convince him.

Zapata straightened up, crossing his arms, with that almost stoic composure that characterized him. He looked more tired than ever, but his voice remained firm.

—Everyone betrays in this war. Isn’t that the risk we always run?

You stare at him in disbelief, feeling a lump form in your throat. With each passing second, the feeling that this would be the last time you would see Zapata grew more intense. He stroked your shoulder with a firm, heavy hand, as if he were granting you some sort of silent farewell.

—If betrayal is the price of freedom, then so be it.