There Mr. Contreras was with Brian Krumas, on the front page of the ChicagoLand section. Krumas, a lock of hair falling over his forehead à la Bobby Kennedy, had one hand on Mr. Contreras’s shoulder, the other clutching Mr. Contreras’s arm just behind the elbow, so that the camera’s focus was on my neighbor’s medals. His Bronze Star gleamed as brightly as the candidate’s smile. Petra’s value to the campaign must have quintupled overnight when she got that photo staged.

I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt and went down to join the party, or whatever it was. “Autograph, autograph.” I thrust my copy of the paper at Mr. Contreras. He was smiling so widely I thought his ears might split open.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Petra said. “Uncle Sal, you’re a hero! There’s no stopping you now!”

She was oblivious to Ruthie’s broad insults: “What hole did you crawl out of? I don’t remember no cousins called Petra. This here is his real family.” Her sons were embarrassed and her father offended, but Petra ignored her, demanding that I let them go up to my apartment to look at my computer.

“He’s on YouTube. He’ll want to see that. And you guys will, too, won’t you?”

The grandsons shuffled their feet and mumbled, adolescents unnerved by Petra’s Valkyrie sexuality. Her cellphone rang as we were clambering up the stairs. Petra looked at the number, then announced it was her office, she had to take the call.

“He does? Really? … No, I’m at my cousin’s … Yeah, my cousin Vic … I suppose in half an hour.” She hung up and turned apologetically to Mr. Contreras. “That was Tania, my boss at the campaign. They never need me for anything. Anything important, I mean. In fact, Tania told me I worked so hard last night I could take today off, but now I’m supposed to go to the office right away for a meeting. Vic, can you show Uncle Sal the YouTube footage? All you have to do is search for last night’s event. I gotta run.”

She clattered down the stairs in her high-heeled boots, leaving Ruthie fuming even more. Who did she think she was?

“She’s my cousin, Ruthie, so let it ride, okay?” I took the unhappy family up to my apartment and set up my laptop for them. The grandsons could navigate YouTube for their grandfather, but, while everyone was shouting out on the walk, I’d gotten a text message of my own. The transcript from the Harmony Newsome murder trial was ready for me to pick up.