Jefes, heads, they’re go-betweens, fixers, who charge illegal immigrants exorbitant fees to smuggle them into the country. No poor immigrant can afford a thousand dollars for a trip across the border, complete with fake green card and social security number, so the jefes “lend” them the money. When they get here, the jefes sell people to companies looking for cheap labor. The jefes pocket most of the wages, doling out just enough for room and board. It’s a system of slavery, really, because it’s almost impossible ever to buy your way out of one of these contracts. I could imagine Pastor Andrés would be furious with any local business who bought people’s work like that.

“This Freddy, he isn’t a jefe, is he?” I blurted out.

“Freddy Pacheco? He is too lazy,” she said scornfully. “A jefe may be evil, but he works hard; he has to.”

Rose and I sat silent after that. She seemed relieved to have finally gotten her story off her mind: her face was brighter, more animated, than it had been since before the fire at the factory. I felt duller—as if I really were too stupid even to go to college, let alone find her daughter.

On the screen in front of me, Spiderman was easily tying up the villain who had been trying to rob the local bank, or maybe it was the local banker trying to rob his customers, but, either way, Spiderman hadn’t even broken a sweat. Not only that, it had taken him less than half an hour to identify the villain and track him down. I desperately needed some superpowers, although even ordinary human powers would do right now.

The baby, which had slept through our talk, began to fuss. Rose sat up and said she was going to the kitchen to heat a bottle, she’d bring me a cup of coffee.

I took the baby from her. “Is Julia still here? I need to ask her some questions about the soap dish, that frog I showed you after church on Sunday.”

Rose went to the back of the apartment; I began to pat the baby’s little back. I sang her the Italian children’s songs my mother used to sing to me, the song of the firefly, the song of the grandmother, with her bottomless kettle of soup. Singing steadies me, makes me feel closer to my mother. I don’t know why I do it so seldom.

Rose returned with a bottle and a cup of bitter instant coffee just as María Inés began to fuss in earnest. Julia trailed after her mother, looking at me suspiciously: Rose had told her we were going to discuss the soap dish, and any trust we had built up at practice this afternoon wasn’t going to carry over to tonight.