“I see you’ve made a friend for life,” Abby observed. She was in the living room, sorting through photographs of the baby. A professional photographer, she’d taken off a few months while Benjamin was an infant, but she’d still found the time to take what looked like hundreds of shots of the newborn.

Hershey, lying at her feet, lifted his head and thumped his thick tail. “At least the dog likes me.”

“Don’t get too excited; he’s not very discriminating. Loves everyone, from the crabby garbage man to my sister Zoey, who a lot of people can take or leave.” She glanced at him. “Me being one.”

“So I heard.” Zoey was Abby’s older sister who lived in Seattle. The sisters’ relationship was, from what Reuben had confided to Montoya, difficult and strained at times.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love her to death, would do just about anything for her, but sometimes she just rubs me the wrong way.”

“I get the picture.” Cruz got along with most of his siblings, some better than others.

“There’s coffee in the pot. You might have to warm it up, though. Been there a while. Your brother left at the crack of dawn.”

“I heard.” Cruz poured himself a mug and set it in the microwave, then played with Benjamin, lying in his infant seat, his dark eyes following Cruz’s movements. “You look too much like your daddy,” he whispered to the boy, whose skin was as gold as Reuben’s, and his hair, nearly black, curled a bit.

Abby laughed. “So I’ve been told.”

“You’ll survive,” Cruz advised his nephew, and was rewarded with a wide, toothless grin.

“The ladies will love you.”

“Geez, give it a rest, will you? He’s just a little over three months old. The ‘ladies’ will just have to wait. Like twenty, no, make that thirty years!”

The microwave dinged and he grabbed his cup, nearly burning himself on the hot handle. Gingerly, he carried it to the bathroom, where he managed to take three swallows before he stepped into the shower and let hot, sharp needles massage his skin. As the steam surrounded him, he remembered that foggy night so long ago, the one in which his vehicle had slid off the road, and Lucia, it seemed, had been lost to him forever.

Now, maybe, he had a second chance.

Then again, odds were against it.

What was it their grandmother used to say? “You make your own luck, Cruz. Don’t you forget it.”

Grabbing the bar of soap, he decided it was long past time to take his abuela’s advice.