Carlos finally let himself drop into the chair behind his desk, as if his legs had lost all strength. The silence of the office was now a physical presence, heavy and oppressive. He stared at the notes scribbled in his own hasty handwriting, but the words seemed to swim before his eyes.

  I'm moving too fast, the thought echoed in his mind, bitter and lucid. Haste is the enemy of perfection, as the saying goes, but here... here haste is the enemy of life. It was inevitable that this would happen. How could they know? How could I have expected them to know? They milk goats, plant manioc, forge iron over a slow fire... They have no idea what a concentrated acid is. They can barely decipher their own name on paper...

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and the scene appeared before him: the whitish smoke, the muffled cry, the look of terror on Davi's face. The acidic smell still seemed to cling to his nostrils.

  I have to stop everything. Or at least slow down. I have to go personally to every factory, every workshop, every furnace. See with my own eyes where else we're playing with fire without knowing how to strike a match.

  With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his bones, he pulled a clean sheet and began to write with renewed determination, but this time, methodical. "Safety Protocols" headed the page. He scribbled topics: "Material Identification," "Mandatory Training," "Protective Equipment," "Emergency Procedure."

  After a few minutes, when an initial list had taken shape, he stood up. His back ached from the accumulated tension. He opened the office door and called for his secretary, an efficient young woman who worked in the anteroom.

  "Marina, please go to the Ministry of Labor. Ask Minister Fernanda to come here as soon as possible. It's urgent."

  The young woman nodded and left with quick steps. Carlos returned to his desk, rearranging the papers as he waited.

  It didn't take long before the door opened again. Fernanda entered, her serious face showing that the news had already circulated. She carried a notebook and an air of practical concern.

  "President," she greeted, closing the door softly.

  "Fernanda, thank you for coming so quickly," Carlos said, indicating the chair in front of him. "I imagine you've already heard about what happened at the chemical factory."

  "The entire mocambo heard, President. And smelled it. It's a tragedy."

  "It's more than a tragedy; it's a warning. A warning we're going to heed. Because of this, we will implement strict safety measures, not just at the chemical factory, but throughout the industry. Throughout the republic, actually. Anywhere there's risk." He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. "As Minister of Labor, one of your new priority functions will be to inspect and audit these measures. Ensure they aren't just papers on the wall, but practiced on the factory floor."

  Fernanda listened in silence, jotting down a point or two. When Carlos finished, she didn't speak immediately. Instead, she looked at her notes, searching for the right words.

  "With all due respect, Carlos..." she began, looking up. "I think the problem has two legs. One is the lack of safety measures, yes. The other... is the lack of preparation of the people we put in place to operate those measures."

  Carlos felt a chill of irritation run down his neck. He knew. He knew it all too well. But hearing it, at that hour, hurt like a fatal diagnosis being confirmed.

  Of course it is! he thought with frustration. But where am I supposed to get experienced chemists from? Out of my pocket? From the 21st century? They don't even know what an atom is!

  He took a deep breath, counting to three in his mind. Irritation was a luxury he couldn't afford.

  "You're right," he admitted, his voice sounding more tired than he would have liked. "We have to be stricter. Much stricter. To work in dangerous environments—not just factories, but even in certain positions here at the city hall that deal with numbers and laws—we're going to require more than good will. We're going to require an elementary school diploma, at a minimum. Then, specific exams for the role. Training." He paused, rubbing his eyes. "The ideal, Fernanda, the ideal would be to require high school, even college, for some things. But we can't wait five, ten years for the first graduating class. The war won't wait."

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  Fernanda nodded, a sign she understood the dilemma. A slight look of satisfaction crossed her face upon seeing her concerns taken seriously, but it was soon replaced by the shadow of the next obstacle.

  "That brings us back to the previous problem, President. We don't have enough literate people to be able to be choosy. It's like trying to make a sieve out of cloth full of holes. All the water passes through."

  Carlos sighed, the sound echoing in the silent office.

  "Yes, I know. But it's not like we can keep putting completely unprepared people to handle products that can dissolve metal and flesh in minutes. I don't want any more accidents. I can't. Every life lost this way... is a betrayal of what we're trying to build."

  Fernanda lowered her gaze to her hands for a moment, her fingers squeezing the notebook's cover. When she spoke again, her voice was respectful but laden with careful apprehension.

  "What if... what if we tried to attract more people from outside? People who already come with some education? Literate immigrants?"

  Carlos couldn't help a short, humorless laugh, which sounded more like a sigh of defeat.

  "I've already tried that route, Fernanda. I asked Specter, with all his network of contacts in the mocambos and among the freed people, to spread the word. That we had work, salary, a home for those who could read, count, had some specialized trade."

  He shook his head. "But guess what? There aren't many free Black people, outside of here, who have had access to a book. It's a very rare privilege. And the white people..." he paused, choosing his words, "...the white people, even the poor ones, those who aren't masters, would hardly agree to move to a republic founded and governed by Black people. As much as I want this to be a republic for everyone, reality is more stubborn. And, to be fair..." he looked directly at Fernanda, at her light skin, "...I don't judge them completely. Many of those who are here, who built this place with their own hands, carry the scars of the whip. Just seeing a white face can awaken a deep pain, a justified hatred. It wouldn't be easy for either side." He made a significant pause. "I imagine you, even as a minister, have already encountered... resistance."

  Fernanda didn't hesitate. She straightened her shoulders, and when she spoke, her voice was firm, clear, as if repeating an oath to herself.

  "I have. Suspicious looks, whispered comments when I pass, some convenient 'forgetting' of orders. Nothing I can't handle."

  She paused, and her gaze grew distant, glazed with a darker memory. "But you know something, President? None of that compares to what it was like to be a white woman, alone, with a sick little daughter, in White Sand. Certain men... men from the very settlement, offered me coins. In exchange for 'favors.' They said it was for me to buy medicine for my little one."

  She swallowed hard, her voice growing a bit rougher.

  "I would rather die than betray my husband, my own soul. But when I saw my daughter, feverish, her little bones showing... that thought, that vile thought, crossed my mind. Maybe... maybe I would have accepted. Maybe hopelessness would have won. If it weren't for the letter. The letter my husband managed to send me, saying he was alive, here. That letter saved me and my Carla. The quilombo saved my Jorginho. And this republic... this republic saved my whole family."

  She looked at Carlos, and her eyes were clear, without tears, but shining with an unshakable conviction.

  "That's why I have a plan. You are right. Hearing from a Black man that a white person will be welcome here sounds... unlikely, to many outsiders. But what if the same message came from a white woman? From a white man? From an entire white family that not only survives in the Republic but prospers? That has a house, dignified work, food on the table, children in school?" Her tone became more urgent, more persuasive. "I know women. I know families. Many are in the same desperate situation I was in. Yes, some carry deep prejudices. But many others, President, are willing to throw those prejudices into the fire if, in return, there's a chance for a better life. A life without fear. They need a bridge. Someone who speaks their language, who understands their fears. Someone like me."

  Carlos had listened to her in complete silence. The weight of her account, the rawness of the choice she almost made, settled on his shoulders along with all the other burdens. In the end, words seemed insufficient. He saw not just a minister, but a survivor. And a strategist.

  "That plan..." he said finally, his voice laden with new respect, "is more than good, Fernanda. It's necessary. Proceed with it. Use whatever resources you need." He stood up, walking to the window once more, but now his gaze wasn't on the dissipated smoke. It was on the horizon, on the road leading from the outside world. "The Republic of Brazil has its arms open to all who wish to build it with honesty and work."