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Juana is unsettled by the brilliance that looms like an evil spirit. She has decided to remain. Luzmila, her eldest daughter, accompanies her. The baby has been taken away by his father, who left with the others. Those remaining in the town are the women and the elderly; the latter remain because the passing of years has instilled a certain stubbornness in them and they have learned how to confront a volcano. The women, on the other hand, are attached to their homes, those walls that were raised with such effort. They close their ears against the government warnings that declare the area of reddened undulating earth a "danger zone."

The blaze advances with a dull roar. It is a distant snoring, a hollow clamor. Juana breathes deeply, there is also a volcano in her chest. She could open her mouth and spew words of fire, words that she has always held inside. Luzmila remains silent at her mother's side. Her thumb plays with the fabric of Juana's skirt, but nothing in her face, where adulthood has arrived prematurely and mercilessly, betrays her fear. The two women watch the blazing horizon advance. They feel a strange heat that penetrates their feet and climbs up their legs. The walls of their hut, accustomed to the morning chill, are suddenly sweating, melting the lime used for whitewashing, a color that lends a feeling of hominess to the dwelling . The bellowing is an absolute echo sung by thousands of beasts; the clouds in the sky become diluted crimson stains. Is it afternoon? Night time? Dawn? Juana no longer remembers time. Perhaps she has remained there, not because she is a woman, but because she is old, and Luzmila is not really her daughter, but her mother and her ancestor. She longs to seek refuge at the child's small breast. Juana stretches out her arm to embrace her daughter, but the lava has entered her home, petrifying both her words and actions.