—Yes, I remember.

—Well, his uncle’s father’s cousin oversees the place. Ay Viejo, no es fácil, the economy has us choked.

—Miraluz, you should be running the country by now.

—I ain’t giving up, Miraluz said. —I’ve been organizing the women at the factory for a union. The owners have the gangs bullying us. But don’t worry, they haven’t gotten to me yet.

Don Chan sat at the kitchen table feeling alone. His grandchildren ignored him. Esperanza waited for him to die. No one cared about him anymore. Yes, he had the nosy neighbor next door who took to inviting him in the afternoons and preparing him soup. And she listened to Don Chan tell her stories, and there was the van driver who no longer waited in the van for his customers, but parked in front of the luncheonette to start off his day with Don Chan. And the bodeguero who counted on Don Chan to tell him the weather and watch the store when he needed to go to the bathroom. But when Don Chan died, would anyone really miss him?

Don Chan looked through the letters. Parents of Dallas Colón? He looked at the envelope up in the light. Precinct? Policía. He opened the envelope. Date and time. Truancy notice. Don Chan kept the letter.

—What does this say? Don Chan asked Bobby, who spent his days watching sports and his night out on the streets. —Is she in trouble?

—She’s cutting school.

—Why would she do that?

—Beats me, Bobby said and wanted his grandfather to leave him alone so he could watch the last few minutes of his game.

—I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you two. Now Esperanza’s going to start on me over this.

—Don’t get me involved, Bobby said. It was between Dallas and his mother. He had enough to think about.

The next day, Don Chan drank his café at the luncheonette. He made a note on his pad. Follow Dallas. He waited for Dallas to leave the apartment.

—Where you going, Viejo? Oswaldo yelled over at him from behind the counter, pointing at the newspapers he had left at the booth.

Don Chan had gone to sit down and read the papers when he recognized Dallas, walking by the luncheonette. She waved at him.

Something told him he should go after her. He wanted to tell her something before it was too late. Soon, he would no longer be able to walk the streets of Nueva York without a companion. It was bad enough he had to use a cane. He never imagined this would happen to him. That he would have to rely on someone. That his body would no longer obey him. That morning, he almost couldn’t hold his bladder long enough to piss in his pot. Don Chan gathered his papers in one hand and propped his weight on the cane.

She was in trouble. He was sure of it. He had to warn her. Trailing behind her, he recalled the long walks he used to take only to find that his teachers had canceled classes. There was no schooling, but he earned big calluses on the soles of his feet because he never wore the right shoe size.