Ever since Mr. Chávez upstairs got a roach infestation a few months ago, we’ve had to deal with the stragglers. But then we started seeing only one or two each week, and it had been a while since we’d seen any at all. It was usually Pa who killed them, but Ma always stepped up whenever he wasn’t around. Tonight, I have no choice. It has to be me.

I tiptoe into the kitchen and open the cabinet under the sink, where Ma keeps the insecticide.

“Be careful,” Sophie says as I point the can at the crack between the stove and the floor. I nod once, but when I press the button, nothing comes out.

“Dammit.” The can is empty. We’ve probably gone through two full cans since this whole thing started, and Ma must’ve forgotten to buy a new one. “Okay, Sophie, we’re gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

I hear her moan in disgust as I walk toward the front door and look down at all the shoes lined up next to it. My heart hurts when I see Ma’s good shoes, and her chanclas, and Pa’s loafers, but I don’t have time to get nostalgic.

In the end, I go for my old Converse. They’re worn, and dirty, and broken around the soles. A little more misuse won’t make much of a difference.

Carrying the shoe in one hand, I go back to the kitchen and bang my free hand against the door of the oven. Nothing happens.

I bang again, and out comes the cockroach, running for its life.

“Aaaaaaah!” I let out a scream so shrill that it barely sounds like my own. I stumble backward to get out of the roach’s way, until I hit the refrigerator. For a second, it looks confused, but then it starts running in Sophie’s direction.

The screams that fill the apartment—both Sophie’s and mine—are piercing. They’re gonna make the neighbors think we’re getting murdered, but I don’t care. I run after the cockroach, unable to contain the scream that just keeps leaving my throat, until I get close enough, and I stretch out my hand, and bang!

“It’s gone,” I pant, feeling as though all the energy has left my body.

Now my biggest concern is cleaning the floor and the bottom of my shoe, but before I can go grab paper towels, Sophie jumps off the chair and wraps her arms around my waist.

“It’s over,” I say, touching her hair. “We’re okay. Everything’s okay.”