Real, fictitious, invented and stolen, Beatriz writes about other Beatriz's: those she could also be, the lives she could have a prescription medicine sales person, a manicurist, one that was murdered young, a Senegalese that longs to go back to her country. As she recounts these lives, the way she looks at herself starts shifting, and with it, the knowledge that destiny is shrewder than us; it has a lot more experience and does not suffer from guilt.