She couldn’t take you nowhere. If we went to a party at a relative’s house, she could never stay long—no matter how much fun she was having—because someone would find you hiding in some closet, or you’d have walked off down the street and some uncle would have to go looking for you. I know for a fact she was embarrassed. But she was afraid some bully would’ve gotten to you so she’d make an uncle look for you. Sometimes a whole group of them would go, like a search party.

I look at my fingers. You wouldn’t know that, I say.

Yeah I know.

Bullshit.

He turns to me. You want me to spell it out, Junior? He stops, regarding me, then shakes his head and looks forward again. He seems to have decided to stop speaking, but then changes his mind.

I heard her saying it once.

Okay, I interrupt.

I heard her saying it once. Apologizing to Tito Bentong for the way you ran off and made everyone look after you all over the neighborhood. She was practically crying. A bunch of her cousins were there from the Philippines, and a classmate from Santo Tomas. She hadn’t seen them in years. Mom had made a dress just for the occasion, brought a pot of Lola’s paella. You’d found your way into a neighbor’s backyard and hid in the bushes. The neighbor—this old dude—had found you and called the police and it took a long time before they got you to us. By the time people could eat, everything was cold. We had to leave before it was even served. Then Mom had to take us through a McDonald’s drive-through because you said you were hungry. We ate in the car.

He pauses, his brows furrowed in thought. It reminds me of the way he used to look whenever he was doing math. The funny thing is, Gabe, you were mute most of the time, and everyone thought you were so well behaved, but at home you’d have these tantrums in front of her. She’d give you whatever you wanted. I guess you somehow felt that she would. You knew it. Suddenly, he stares at me. I never see you doing that anymore, though, Junior, he says, almost as though this is something to be sad about.

We drive down into Rustic Canyon. Dusty sunlight flickers through the ropy leaves of overhanging eucalyptus trees, and I catch glimpses of houses through the wooded roadside. The road narrows and winds. As we enter the fog again, he turns on his windshield wipers.

We are quiet. I feel his eyes on me, but he does not say anything. After a while he studies me again.

Are you going to cry?

No.

Man, I can’t take you anywhere.