It was the sight of Fede and Rafael lying prone at Vargas’ feet. The organ-transfer cases they’d been carrying lay on the floor beside them, lids open. One of Rafael’s arms was stretched toward Vargas, the surgical glove pulled halfway down over his hand. He’d probably been trying to touch the priest when he collapsed. I couldn’t tell if my friend was breathing or not—his body lay in a contorted heap and his head was turned away from me. Fede was equally still.