I freeze. The doorway is empty. I look around hurriedly and, blocking me from the alleyway, stands Eddy Ho, over six feet tall and half Samoan, in a faded UCLA Law T-shirt. He appears barely more than a silhouette with the daylight behind him, and seems cold and angry. A knife hangs down from his hand. I notice he is squinting to make me out and realize he has not recognized me. In a strange way I start dreading that he will. He was four years ahead of me at Saint Dominic’s, though he graduated and takes classes at Santa Monica College now and lives in this apartment his parents bought for him because they still live in Taiwan and want him to get a US citizenship. He lives with his sister, who goes to law school, though they barely talk. Tomas says the parents are Mormons and eventually want to move to Salt Lake City. He is not really a dealer—he only sells to friends—and gets money from his father. I used to watch him play pickup games with some black guys on the basketball court across the street from the church. Although most of the older students did not know who I was, he was still friends with Tomas then, and used to call me Gabrielito and Little Brother.

I can’t see my brother behind him, and Eddy senses me looking and knows I am looking and this seems to give him more confidence. He takes a step forward and I wonder if Tomas is going to leave or help me, but he does not come up behind him.

Then Eddy stops. He leans closer, squinting.

Gabe?

His face starts to relax and he looks bewildered. Immediately I remember the heavy tire iron hanging from my left hand and I try to ease it behind me without drawing his attention. My other hand still clutches the foil, warm and damp and too big to hide in my fist.

Is that Gabrielito Sullivan?

I say nothing.

What the hell are you doing here? he says, beginning to smile, but then notices the foil in my hand. His smile fades and he glances at the broken glass and I can see the gears of his mind working it out. He looks at me. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

I’m sorry.

What the fuck, Gabe, he says, then sees the tire iron dangling behind me. It is all I can do not to drop it.

Look. You can have it back.

You broke my fucking window, he says, shaking his head. You broke my fucking window and you think it’s that easy?

I’m sorry.

You’re sorry.

I’ll fix it.

You think it’s that easy? He shakes his head again. You seemed like such a nice kid, Gabe.