Years later, during a thunderstorm, the café lost power and the safe jammed. The villagers, half in pajamas and half in raincoats, jostled each other outside, hands full of candles and bowls. They sang old songs to keep spirits up while Ana coaxed the safe open. When it finally yielded, the drive was slightly scratched but intact. Someone joked that the recipes had passed the storm test. They cooked anyway—over a makeshift fire on the street—using only memory and the few pages that had been photocopied and pinned under a brick for safekeeping.