Then the static clicks off.

Tomas frowns and hits the side of the intercom and presses the button. I already talked to the señor of the casa, he says to the voice when it comes on again.

You speak to him already?

Sí.

There is a pause, and then the voice says okay and the gate slowly swings open. Its iron bottom scrapes along the driveway. You’d think they’d get a faster motor if they can afford a house like this, he says.

That was really great Spanish, Tomas, I say.

Fuck you, he says.

III

We pull up behind a black Land Cruiser that sits high on extra-tread snow tires, and in the polished paint a sunny, ghostlike reflection of our white car warps and twists as it nears. The dogs are nervous, thumping against my seat back.

Tomas pops open his door and gets out, pulling Johan after him.

Should I bring Buster out too? I say. She looks at me, then at Tomas—confused—and then to Johan, before laying the side of her head against my bare forearm.

No.

But don’t you want her to see Johan off? I thought that was the whole point.

It is, he says.

I pause.

So?

So Buster is coming to see us off, but I didn’t say anything about you coming inside, he says.

I am silent.

I don’t want you coming in and fucking it up, he says.

He tells Johan to sit and the dog does, then my brother pulls the seat up again and Buster scrambles out. By now Johan has gotten excited again, and I hear his panting all the way from the passenger seat. His head turns back and forth as he looks rapidly around, making half circles like a cat. Buster comes up beside him, and he looks at her quickly, almost nudging her, but moves away again, distractedly, as he takes in his new surroundings.

I’m not gonna fuck it up, I say.

You’d fuck it up just looking the way you do.

What does that mean?

I mean take a good look at those clothes you’re wearing. One look at that and they’ll take the offer back for sure.

I don’t think they’d care what I wear, I say, and come out of the car and force myself to hold my words. I want to ask him why he is being such an asshole, and when will he get over it, but I am beginning to wonder if he has actually become one. My eyes tear and the sun blinds me. If I cried maybe he would stop, but to prevent this from happening I stare hard at the house, studying it. Through the glass in the front double doors a brown-skinned woman approaches. She wears cheap jeans and a faded red T-shirt, probably a maid. She opens the door and steps outside.