His invocation finished, the man dropped the sponge onto a pile near his feet. He motioned to two of the cultists, who entered one of the darkened, rectangular doorways in the upper level of the teocalli . They emerged a moment later, their hands on the shoulders of a slender youth who walked between them. I gasped, thinking at first that this might be Teresa. But it was a young boy, dressed in ragged jeans and sandals and a dirty T-shirt that was too small for him. He looked like the street kid we’d encountered in Tenochtitlán—one of the innumerable SINless gutterpunks you find in any big city.