Other readers say this story is set in Brazil, and one defends that claim convincingly. I'd assumed at first the location was in Africa (because of a nearby town called Prince Leopold), but admit my error. The author avoids specific clues. As Robert Heinlein wrote, "Throughout history, poverty is the normal condition of man;" so I suppose the story need not be tied to any particular country.
What is clear at the beginning, however, is the author's very effective depiction of severe drought and a most precarious existence. Those of us with the leisure to read fiction and comment about it online should acknowledge, with gratitude, the good fortune that put us where we are on this earth. The opening passage is astonishing and eloquent, despite the grim subject matter. The prose calls attention to the characters' dire circumstances and demands respect for them. The only objection a reader might have is that this is mere prologue. Relief will not be just around the corner.
One reader complains of a sense that "everyone is waiting for something to happen." When sustained past a point, that sense may well create discomfort, but I think it's a big part of the story for anyone in a truly bad situation. You want change. You need it desperately. But whether it comes is often out of your control. And if very little happens over a long period of time—well, that may create a challenge for story-tellers and readers but it's reality for people like Isabel.
My impulse during the depiction of Isabel's childhood was to think of her as being in a jam, i.e., a predicament to be solved. That's because, if I were reduced to comparable circumstances, I'd be putting my mind to figuring out an escape. But such thinking is probably alien to someone born into it, who knows nothing else. And, again, a true escape is not in the cards.
In the main part of the story, she's 14 years old. She's highly observant of the details in her environment. We take note of all those details with her, and wonder if any might serve as a clue. Until quite recently she had lived with her family in the mostly bone-dry far north of her country, where in good times people could earn a paltry income by harvesting sugarcane. Now, to avoid starvation, she has made the perilous journey south to an unnamed metropolis, riding with a crowd of strangers on the back of a flatbed truck. Fortunately, she manages to locate a cousin who is among multitudes who've preceded her to the city and created a vast shanty town. However, the one longed-for person she feels she absolutely must find is the older brother, Isaias, with whom she has always had a special connection. He also came this way, but disappeared before her arrival.
Once she's in the city, there is a passage told not from Isabel's point of view but rather by an omniscient narrator summarizing the situations of the other people trying to survive in this scary new place: factory workers, waitresses, prostitutes, security guards. This broader perspective adds context, and I guess it's information she gradually absorbs. For me, that brief narrative switch felt like a minor hiccup. But Isabel meanwhile continues grappling with issues that are far from minor, e.g., a scripturally literate high-society woman who treats her with profound contempt (prompting rage she's never before known), a sweep through the neighborhood by riot police when the government decides it can no longer ignore their existence, and a life-threatening experience when she attempts to go partying with a coworker.
Repeatedly, she finds herself in situations so dire that I was already grieving for her before the hammer fell. The fact that she dodges ruin so many times may indeed be, as she thinks it is, to the credit of St. Jude, patron of lost causes.
On the rare occasions when she encounters human kindness—say, from the police inspector she hopes will help find her brother—she's incapable of acknowledging it. That may be the clearest indication of the mental state into which she's falling.
And I was right there with her. For example, I was driving in traffic while listening to the dreamlike passage in which she's running after someone who may be her brother and trying not to lose him in the crowd. For a fleeting moment, I actually thought I was trying to catch up with somebody.
It comes as a relief when Isabel enjoys an exceedingly rare excursion to the beach, with its novel scenery and the pleasant sensations of salt spray and sun-warmed sand. I will say, having now read three of Daniel Mason's novels, that I appreciate his somewhat benevolent treatment of his characters. They tend to survive, and in Isabel's case that is not nothing. It's even victory.