In the foothills of the Panamanian mountains where coffee beans gleam like placas de alto, the shacks bear the heavy weight of cinder block walls, begrudgingly. God save the chica, who was born here, wearing clothing as bright as the sun, trying to chase away the rain because she can’t afford an umbrella. Twelve hours a day, she picks granos de café and listens to the radio, Martín Torrijos, presidente has thirty rooms to himself while her family sleeps seven to a bed. Her father screams, “Oye, ten cuidado,” while she plays, “when you break your arm we will all starve!” She attends school three hours a week, and she’s Miss Analfabeta. The teacher comes only for the plata and tells stories of America. She dreams of the U.S. and the gringos in Sierra Punta, and I dream of her and buy fair trade.