—Oh, sorry, she said. He had called her Caridad before.

—And why aren’t you helping me? We must get to work. He gave her the box of clippings. —I know the answer is hidden in here somewhere, he said and started laying out the days on the table in rows.

—Sorry. Hush laid out clippings, cleaning up the uneven edges. Pulling out the words. Transfer. Women. Stock. Reshape. Power. Building. Bomb. Biological. Fire.

Don Chan loved to spend his days alone with his Caridad. Watching her read books while she sat on the sofa. Her stomach growing each day. Him reading his newspapers. It was just them, their unborn child, and the trees. Except there were no trees inside the apartment, just some sad-looking plants and lots of boxes filled with things to send one day to D.R.

—I should water the plants, Don Chan said and poured water in a glass. He placed it on the table and then forgot about the plants and started reading his headlines again. Don Chan was waiting for his son to be born. But he already had a son. What was his son’s name? Don Chan looked at his newspapers for guidance. His son’s name? Coño, maldito nombre. And where was he? They had much to do.

That’s right, his wife Caridad gave birth right on the table where they slaughtered the pigs. There was a lot of blood. His wife nearly died giving birth. She was supposed to die. The woman who knew about such things said that his wife was on borrowed time.

—Who are you? Don Chan asked Hush, who was diligently laying out his headlines neatly just like when she worked with him at the luncheonette. She started to read them aloud.

ALREADY STRUGGLING DOMINICANS

SINK DEEPER INTO POVERTY

DOMINICANS MAY ALLOW VOTING ABROAD: IMMIGRANTS

IN NEW YORK WOULD GAIN INFLUENCE

—Ay, mi Caridad, Don Chan said. —I’ve put you through so much.

Hush became worried. The side of his face had dropped a little. She had noticed it before. His eye was lower on one side of his face.

—Are you okay, Señor Don Chan?

The way she said señor made him realize that Caridad was gone. Don Chan noticed his old hands near Hush’s cheek and saw the passage of time in such a way that he was ashamed of himself.

—Ay, Miraluz, I’m sorry…when you get here?

—I’m not Miraluz.

—I’ve been wanting to tell you something.

—Tell me, Viejo, I’ll make sure to let her know.

He patted her hand and her head. Touched her knee. His hands trembled when he wasn’t holding on to something. His wrinkles, like canyons riding up and down his face.

—Touch your belly button, go ahead, see how it feels, Don Chan said.

To please him, Hush put her finger over her belly button, which was pushing out against her T-shirt. Don Chan put his hand over her hand, pressing on her belly with hesitation.

—Your belly button is the place that connects your child to you, you to your mother, her to her mother, and on and on back to when people were connected to the earth because they had no other choice.