—Broadway is one long street, he said, looking over at them, and then headed straight into the bedroom.

—Pero, Don Chan, are you all right? Esperanza called after him. She examined his face and squeezed his hands and arms. Everything was in place.

—Abuelo, what happened? Bobby asked, relieved.

—Sí, sí, I’m fine. Why all the fuss? Went for a walk that’s all.

That night, Don Chan lay on his twin bed with his clothes on. Every muscle melted into the mattress. He pulled his sheets up to his chin. He flexed each foot to feel them on his body. It was never warm enough in Nueva York. Not enough for his bones. Sleep terrified him when he was tired. If he shut his eyes, would it send him off to the other side? Every day he felt his spirit inching away from his body. It sat beside him, like a shadow. His body lagging behind in the physical world and his soul watching him and waiting for a good moment to depart.

He refused to close his eyes voluntarily. He waited until sleep took him. Sometimes it took a long time. He watched the shadows of passing cars race across his ceiling. Listened to the drunken loner outside his window slurring words to himself. The restless German lady with the hairy upper lip who lived above them paced throughout the night, moving chairs from one side of the room to the other. He listened to the soft squeaking of the mattress from the woman who lived alone, next door. She had a visitor that night. By the length of the squeak he could tell if the lover was stopping by or planning to stay with her.

Bobby heard that his old friend Ed was doing well. Working from home with his own clients. —Dime con quien tú andas y yo te diré quien tú eres, was his mother’s refrain. And Bobby was convinced that if he hadn’t been with Lalo and Arnold that day, he would not have gotten into the mess he did. He wanted to be around people who were doing something with their lives. Maybe something positive would rub off.

Ed lived alone. The dismembered computers in his apartment resembled a tragic automobile accident. The computer parts and all their colorful wires waited to be operated on and put back together. He had one lamp on his desk, a door propped over two file cabinets. A big television mounted on the corner, high up, near the ceiling. Two folding chairs for company. His fridge a collection of beer, cola, and Tupperware, brought over by Ed’s mother so he made sure to eat. In his bedroom, he had a pile of clothes on a chair and the bed unmade, always in transition, implying he hardly slept. Ed had no phone, only an Internet connection and a cell phone for emergencies.

Bobby wanted that life. One where he never had to see people. Where no one told him what to do, and he worked when he felt like it. For Ed, when he was working, day or night was the same thing.