Tomas lets the dogs into the car first, and they climb in back. Their fear—if they ever had any—has transformed into excitement, and as they peer out at me their breath fogs the windows. Their noses leave moist dots on the glass. Tomas gets inside. As I reach for my door he leans over and locks it.

The handle does not move. What you doing? Open the door.

You aren’t coming.

Don’t be stupid, I say. Let me in.

You deaf?

I try the handle harder again, though it will not budge. The dogs have their claws clambering against the glass, watching me. Tomas looks forward, inserting the key and revving the engine.

He pretends to be warming up the car, though he is waiting for me to plead.

Come on, Tomas, I finally say. Let me come with you.

He turns to me and rolls the window down a crack.

Why should I?

I want to see this celebrity’s house.

He looks me up and down and shakes his head.

One look at you and they’ll think these dogs were raised by a bunch of wimps.

I look aside and do not answer him, pretending to stare off at the neighbor’s cactus plant. Nails scraping against the glass sound like keys clicking.

The door snaps open.

When I turn to him, he throws some of his clothes and junk off the seat onto the floor.

All right, you don’t have to cry, he says. Come on in.

I do not move. I’m not crying, I say.

I’m not going to ask you again, he says. So you can come along and look at the house or stay behind.

Without a word I get in and we pull out and the car humps over the lump in the asphalt, a great warp above a tree root, and the dogs fall against my seat back and I can hear their eager panting.

We pass beneath the 405 overpass, entering its shadows, and above us I can see patches of sky between the bellies of the freeways that appear blindingly bright and blue, and the sun flickers over the dogs’ faces until we come out into the daylight again. The dogs watch the sun, then the wetbacks who stand in golden shafts amid the shadows waiting to get picked up for work, short little men who smoke cigarettes and talk in groups.

Here the dogs peer at the buildings we pass: the mix of discount stores West LA people come down to shop in; taquería stands for the wetbacks who live three or four families to an apartment close by; a Starbucks on the way to the on-ramp that looks posh once you get beyond the iron railings that protect it.