She comes charging at him, and he picks her up easily. He has warm brown eyes, a buzz cut, and a well-groomed beard, and he looks nothing like anyone in my family. That’s because we’re not related by blood. Even though we’ve called him Uncle Jorge for as long as I can remember, his last name isn’t Garcia. It’s Reyes, and he isn’t really my dad’s brother.

“I came as soon as I could,” he says, stepping into the apartment.

“How did you find out?”

“I got a few calls,” he says as he closes the door behind himself, still holding Sophie firmly with one arm.

“Calls?” I ask. “From who?”

“Tus papás. Your dad called first, asked me to come check on you. And then your mom, a few hours later, asking me to do the exact same thing.” So that’s what Ma and Pa did with the phone call they were each allowed—they both decided to call Jorge instead of me. “Erika called me as well, told me what happened.”

I’m surprised Erika thought of reaching out to him. It makes sense, I guess, especially if she’s worried about her job. Even though it’s my dad’s bodega, Jorge is the owner on paper. It’s his name on all the legal stuff, his signature on all the important documents. He agreed to sign on behalf of Pa as a way to thank him for everything my parents did for him when he was younger.

“Mateo, I—I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry this is happening.”

I nod, wiping tears away. I don’t have time to feel all these emotions right now. I have too many questions I need answers to. “How are they?”

Uncle Jorge puts Sophie down before answering. He remains kneeling on the floor in front of her for a second. “They…” He sighs. “They’re holding up. They’re mostly just worried about you and Sophie. You’re all they talked about.”

Again, I nod. It’s so ironic that all I’ve been doing is worry about them—where they are, how they’re doing, what’s going to happen to them. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would be asking themselves the exact same questions about Sophie and me.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“Your mom was taken to a detention center upstate. Your dad is in a jail in New Jersey.”

Jail. The sound of that word seems to echo in the apartment. We all freeze for a moment, listening to it in our minds. How is this even possible? Pa belongs right here, at home with his family, not in a jail in New Jersey.

“Can we talk to them?” I ask, at the same time that Sophie asks, “Can we go see them?”