But the Colón family was all too sore and hot from wearing heavy coats and carrying their bags to care about the hour changing. They didn’t have the energy to notice that the sanitation contracts were corrupt. Bridges were built halfway, construction was put to a halt until the new president figured out how much money he could make off the government before the next government came in and did the same. To Don Chan and Esperanza, nothing much had changed since they left. Everyone vying for a coffee bean, a cane stalk, a grain of rice, to sell, to eat, to live on. No, the Colón family didn’t care (at least not right away) about the strikes, the endangered flora and fauna, the below-living wages at American-owned factories in the free-trade zones. They had traveled like a family and together they got off the plane, each in their own heads, each with their own dreams and desires.

They were welcomed by anticipating Dominican faces and pushed out of the plane and airport by anxious Dominican Yorks, whose bodies were ornate with gold, lugging baggage dubbed los muertos. Esperanza was looking for los muertos, the large suitcases that resembled body bags as they slumped on the conveyor belt. Seventy-pound suitcases (plus or minus two pounds), which each passenger who had relatives in D.R. brought over. They were filled with secondhand clothes and things that nobody wanted anymore back in New York City: canned foods, candy and cereal, electronics and accessories.

Don Chan exited Las Américas Airport to be welcomed by a light drizzle and a rainbow that arched over the partly cloudy sky.

—Ay mi país, Don Chan said, looking around teary eyed. It had been eight years. He didn’t carry a bag, only his Dominican passport. He had never become a U.S. citizen, always thinking his stay in New York City would be temporary. But as time passed, more and more of his comrades had died. Like he was dying. Like everything he knew to be true was dying.

—We’re going home, he said, but no one was listening. And as they walked out of the airport and were greeted by the excited faces of strangers, the scent of the sea…oh the sea…Don Chan was compelled to see the sea.

—Where’s the sea? he said and went up to a taxi driver and asked to be taken there.

Bobby ran after him and apologized to the taxi driver.

—Dáme un regalo, ’mano, the taxi driver said with a con-artist smile.

Bobby didn’t smile back; he grabbed Don Chan by the arm, realizing how thin he was, how easily his bones could break and how careful he had to be with him.

—Come with me, Abuelo. Don’t worry. We’ll go to the sea.

—Did I ever tell you, Bobby, that before we were cane people, we were sea people?

—Sí, Abuelo, you did.

Don Chan could taste the sea, he could hear it. His ear full of water, his skin sticky to the touch, his veins on his arms, oh yes, look, the sea runs through my body, he told Dallas, who was looking over at the fast-food counters.