Mrs. Hernández sat at the table and didn’t look up for what seemed like hours. She sat there and Esperanza sat with her, preparing fresh coffee and some warm bread with slices of cheese. She was relieved she didn’t have to tell Mrs. Hernández that she was switching her assignment. And without expecting it, Esperanza felt a great sense of loss for the man who hardly said a word to her except for the occasional grunt.

—I woke up this morning and he wasn’t breathing. It’s the first thing I do. I did that with my sons, you know. Every morning, make sure they were breathing. Because no matter how healthy we are, a falling dream can take us and we won’t know how to come back. So I always checked.

Esperanza nodded. She also checked in with her children at night and in the morning to make sure they were safe.

—I should call my son, Mrs. Hernández said and started tearing up again.

—I’m so sorry, Esperanza said, thinking about Hush. The impression of Hush’s body on her sofa cushions was still there when she left the apartment. A baby left behind without a mother. Esperanza also began to cry.

—You’re a good woman, Esperanza. Mrs. Hernández handed her a tissue.

—If I call my son, he’d want to come. But what could he do? He’s so far away, you know. I didn’t plan for this. I imagined this day, but I never planned for it.

Esperanza hadn’t planned for Santo’s death, either. She assumed there would always be time.

—What am I going to do all alone? He was my compañero for forty-five years. What will I do, Esperanza?

—You’ll live as you always did. Esperanza wanted to tell her that, yes, she will live, but now she’ll always have the feeling that she had forgotten to do something, and there will always be a void that nothing will fill. Thinking about it made Esperanza’s eyes well up with tears once again. She didn’t want to be reminded of the pain of her husband’s death, and even though she knew very well what Mrs. Hernández was going through, she wanted to leave her and not deal with it. But what are experiences for, if not to make us stronger for others who have yet to live through such things? Mrs. Hernández needed her. As nasty as she had been sometimes, watching her cry, bent over at the table, poking her hands inside the eyelet of her tablecloth, she seemed like a good woman.

—My husband died too. Esperanza took a long sip of coffee, unsure if her story was appropriate. —When he died, I thought that was the end of my life. Then days went by and by, and now days pass and I’m only reminded of him by his photograph on my altar. And I hate myself for forgetting, but it’s been so long now.

But there were still moments, like the day of his death, their anniversary, his birthday, when the loss of him hit her in a way so that she would lose herself again. How sometimes she caught Santo’s scent of petroleum, burned wood, the wet earth and sea when she least expected it.