There was plenty to do. Funds to gather, and weapons, and members; banks and gun clubs to raid for supplies; copper wire to coil into a shape that holds without hurting. Salomé tried on every pair of handcuffs she made. She pulled her wrists against the wires, and if they left red slashes she kept adjusting to make them gentler. Of course, they could always twist out of shape in some faceless Tupamaro’s satchel or pocket or purse, but still, she did her best. The wearers might be guards, bank workers, customers, receptionists, the very people the Movement was for. The last thing we’d do is hurt these people, she thought, shaping circles slowly, massaging her good wishes into wire. Tupamaros were always kind and courteous during operations. Courtesy was an essential Movement rule. There were many rules to learn. They seeped into her world and mind. Rule One: Be impeccable, don’t attract attention. She could do that, she was a natural, she’d been preparing all her life. Rule Two: Be devoted.
