Don Chan checked for his hat on his head. He was walking on Broadway. That intersected Quepasó. Where was she going? Dallas descended into the train station. Don Chan, afraid of tripping and falling, grabbed the railing. He forewent the turnstiles and walked through the side door that was open. Boys catcalled Dallas from across the platform. What if something happened to him? If he ended up bedridden, because of a sprained ankle, and never recovered? Any minor accident to remind his body that his time was up. He looked around at the strange faces. Where were they all going? Don Chan searched for Dallas on the crowded train. He held on tight to the pole, cold and greasy, infested with people’s germs, people who picked their noses, asses, and ears. Thousands of germs seeping into his hands. He noticed he was on the red train. He pulled out his pad and wrote it down. What if he forgot? He said his name to himself many times. Don Chan Lee Colón de Juan Dolio. Don Chan Lee Colón de Juan Dolio. It calmed him.

—There she is, he told the man with the solemn face. Dallas bopped her head while reading the ads on the train. She must be going to school. He watched her slip off the train at Seventy-second Street and Broadway. He followed her. His leg fell asleep.

—Maldita sea, he said, dragging his leg against the pavement with most of his weight on the cane. He started walking closely behind her, afraid he would lose her in the crowd of humans rushing to their destinations, talking on their cell phones, lugging babies, shopping bags, briefcases, instruments, pets. Excuse me. Get out of my way. Sorry. What the fuck you looking at?

Dallas checked her reflection as she walked by all the store windows. Adjusting her ponytail, reapplying her lipstick. Where was she going?—Wait, Dallas, I have something to tell you, he said, lifting his cane and pressing his weight against it as he lifted his leg over uneven sidewalks, dog shit, and litter. Dallas, he said out to the crowd, his voice hoarse, like an old recording. Faint. From another time and place.

It was time for his nap. It was nine thirty AM. She couldn’t hear him. She had her headphones on. Guantanamera / Guajira Guantanamera. She sang out loud. He knew that song. It used to come out of his small radio in D.R. His backyard, under the shade of their mango tree, roosters crowing, a cold Presidente beer on the back of his neck, and Celia Cruz cooing Yo soy un hombre sincero…Ay, papá, thought Don Chan, skipping a beat as he thought back to the days when he could still dance. De donde crece la palma, he sang to himself on Broadway, looking for the palm trees and El Malecón. And the sun beating down on his skin wasn’t hot enough. Don Chan looked around at all the people rushing around him. Missing everything, every opportunity to live. —Y antes de morirme quiero / Echar mis versos del alma. It was from José Martí’s poem. Mi verso es de un verde claro / Y de un carmín encendido / Mi verso es un ciervo herido / Que busca en el monte amparo. And now one hundred years later, Dallas sang Martí’s words. Con los pobres de la tierra / Quiero yo mi suerte echar: / El arroyo de la sierra / Me complace más que el mar. What would Martí think of that? Don Chan wanted to call up Martí and tell him the news. Martí said, Before I die, let me sing from the soul. He predicted carmine flames, his verses a wounded deer searching in the mountains for protection. As a child, Don Chan’s father made him memorize that poem. How easy it was for Don Chan to recall Martí’s words.