This discovery made Martina restless. If La Consti had predecessors, could she make it more than a private manifesto? Could she print it? The printing press in her mother's basement had been waiting, and Martina imagined stacks of folded pamphlets—plain brown covers, a map sketched on the inside—distributed at Confluencia. But she also wanted to preserve a certain elusiveness. The villagers prized their unwritten laws because their vagueness allowed mercy and improvisation. An article, once written, could calcify into dogma. Martina debated whether to transcribe the rules with footnotes or to render them as stories that told the why instead of the how.

Uses "Los Esquemas de Martina" (Martina's Diagrams) to break down the structure of the Constitution, such as Fundamental Rights, the Crown, and the Judiciary.

Her childhood house was a narrow thing of wood and paint that had once been white and many times since been other colors, each new coat an attempt to forget an earlier winter. From its attic window Martina watched the constellations move with the steady indifference of the sea. She loved lists—maps, lists of plants, names of friends—and she made one for everything. When she was eight she made a list of all the places she might run to if the house were on fire; when she was twelve she cataloged the community's patchwork rules, half-folk law and half-habit, and called it "La Consti" in a child's joke that stuck.