We’re hanging out at the Reading and Resource Center, where I’ve been volunteering with Cesar for four years, five afternoons a week, since he was three. What started as school-required community service has become a big, essential part of my life, the place I go to decompress and relax, and the only place where just being me is more than enough. Cesar’s assigned as my “little buddy,” which means in addition to helping him with his homework, reading to and with him, and, of course, playing, I’m occasionally allowed to take him on field trips if I get permission from his mom in advance.

“Backup for what?” I ask. Of course I’ll be Cesar’s backup, regardless of context, because I love this kid like he’s my little brother. Sometimes he tells me stories about other kids making fun of him—for not knowing about Minecraft or sucking at kickball—and it takes all my willpower not to drive over to his school and destroy some first graders.

“You know, in case anything happens and I need, like, more adults,” Cesar says. He has a giant gap where his two front teeth used to be, a dark bowl cut, and no concept of personal space. When we read together on the big overstuffed chairs, he likes to hurl himself onto my lap, like he’s doing gymnastics. He often farts out loud, and then giggles his contagious giggle, and for a minute, he turns me seven too, and farting becomes the funniest thing in the world.

“Anything happens?” I ask. I do not reflexively correct him. Do not say what I am thinking, that I’m not, by any measure, an adult. Because to Cesar I am. When we first started hanging out together, I asked him how old he thought I was. He guessed fifty. “What do you mean?”

“Like, you know, if my mom has to go away or something.” My heart sinks. By necessity, Cesar’s been taught to talk in code, even with me. His mom is a refugee from El Salvador, and though no one has told me outright, it’s pretty clear she’s undocumented. A lot of the parents of kids at the Center are.