—Esos chinos sí saben, many said, as if being born in China granted Don Chan a gift for knowing things. She didn‘t care if he was once Jesus, she was sick of people telling her how great Don Chan was.

He was no longer in D.R. He had no followers in her house, so he better stop talking about the good old days or he‘d wake up in the morning with his bed floating down the Hudson River.

Esperanza looked at the slaughter in her sink. Santo came up from behind her to get some ice from the fridge.

—What the hell is going on in here? Santo asked Esperanza. The water was boiling on the stove. The green peppers cracked open. The refrigerator door open.

—I‘m making dinner.

She gathered the pieces of chicken and piled them on one plate. Hadn‘t he noticed how every day without fail she made dinner?

Don Chan looked at the walls, crowded with gold-framed mirrors and paint-by-number paintings of horses. The air was thick with cinnamon air freshener. The furniture too big for the size of the room. Don Chan‘s knees knocked against Bobby‘s bicycle. There was no place for him in all that clutter.

—Santo, tell your father to take a shower before we eat, Esperanza yelled from the kitchen.

—What if I don‘t want to? Don Chan whispered to Santo.

—Don‘t give her a hard time.

Santo handed him a fresh towel from the hallway closet. He showed him Dallas‘s bedroom and where he could put his things in the bathroom.

—This is your home now, Santo said to his father, who seemed a little lost. —I have to move my car. I‘ll be right back.

—I should go with you, Don Chan said.

—It‘s too cold outside. Wait for me here, Papà.

—Sí, sí, no hay problema.

Don Chan walked into the bathroom. He latched the lock and sat on the rim of the tub. He noticed the bulk of toilet paper, the peeling tub, and the spotted mirror. He turned the faucet on and off. How clear the water was. He cupped some in his hands. It was sweet. He was relieved to be alone. The radiator was clanking and hissing. What am I doing here? he asked.

In the mornings, Don Chan reached across his bed for Doña Caridad and waited to listen to the small gasps she made when she slept. The mild shock of forgetting she was gone, that he was no longer in D.R., caused such confusion, he bolted out of his bed to turn on the lights in the bedroom. —Sí, sí, he reminded himself, checking off his mental list of the things that were no longer true and the things he was set to do each day. He glanced over at the calendar given to him from the bodega owner up the street. One month had passed since his arrival.

Routine was his savior. He hadn‘t realized how much he had depended on Doña Caridad to remember things. Without her, it was a chore to maintain an organized closet. He made great efforts to line up in the closet his short-sleeved guayabera for warmer days and long-sleeved ones for winter. Three wool cardigans, a pile of freshly ironed boxer shorts, and a number of white short-sleeve undershirts were folded on a shelf. Black and navy straight-legged pants hung beside each other. A crate filled with dark-colored, thin, polyester dress socks. Two wide-brim felt hats, one black, the other navy, to protect his aging eyes from the sun. Order prevented him from forgetting things. With contempt, he checked the weather by placing his hand against the windowpane. In the Dominican Republic, Don Chan never had to check the weather. It was always predictably hot.