One youth staggered out of his building and sat on the front steps waiting for a car to pull up. When Don Chan’s eyes met with the young man’s, he recognized the look of despair in his eyes. After the U.S. occupation, many of the youth in the Invisibles Ones had that look. Lost. Wounded. Pissed. Unarmed. The youth hid his face farther into his hood.

Bobby. My grandson, Bobby, Don Chan thought. That’s who’s coming home.

—Well, that’s good news, isn’t it? he told the lady sitting at the booth next to his, who smiled back in agreement.

He checked his notepad. Tomatoes, corn, lettuce. What is this? It couldn’t be that important if he didn’t remember what it was.

Esperanza listened to Radio WADO while she readied herself to catch the bus to Spofford.

—Qué bonito día! The radio host dragged the last word up and over an old Johnny Ventura merengue.

—What a beautiful day, Esperanza repeated, slamming the snooze button. She often dreaded Mondays, but Bobby was coming home. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t working on a Monday. Two days off in a row. It felt as if she were on vacation. She drew open the curtains and looked out to see the weather, delighted that it was warmer and that she didn’t have to wear a heavy coat.

Esperanza ran over to the kitchen to boil a pot of water, so that by the time she showered, the water would be ready for the plátanos. After her shower, she ran back into the kitchen, trying not to wake Dallas. She peeled the plátanos, took out the eggs and the salchichón from the fridge, then threw the salchichón slices in hot oil, and while one side cooked, she ran back to her room to put on jeans, a blouse. She prided herself on her ability to multitask.

She opened the small tin on her dresser. It used to hold cookies, but now she puts in a few dollars every day, even if it’s just one. She slips it in and pretends she lost that dollar, or played it on the lotto. If Mrs. Hernández could save enough to build something, maybe by the time she gets to be her age, Esperanza would have enough to build her house. Sometimes she put two dollars, other times she put five. She never counted how much, as if by looking at the money for too long it would make it disappear. Or by having the strength not to look at it would help it multiply.

She prepared Dallas and Don Chan’s breakfast. He wouldn’t eat it, but she didn’t care. She had a day off. She could make her family breakfast. Then ran back into her room to do her makeup. After years of the same routine, Esperanza could put her makeup on blind. She powdered her skin, and lined her brows; she applied the lipstick in one stroke and patted on crème blush, which she spread with her fingers. She feathered her bangs and tied the rest of her hair back into a ponytail. She puckered her lips in the mirror and wondered: If she had been born in the States, would she have been an actress like Rita Hayworth or Raquel Welch? But she would’ve changed her name, maybe into Hope Saint or Saint Hope. Something American sounding.