Bobby crossed the busy streets and noticed that some streets were paved and lined with mansion-style homes. A few steps away, he found himself walking on dirt roads, riddled with potholes, crowded with houses that were suffocating with people and swayed with a heavy wind.

The colmado was in plain view to Don Chan. Bobby was proud of him. It couldn’t have been easy for him to stay in one place. Bobby ordered a Presidente beer to appease his thirst and asked the guy behind the counter if he knew where the old theater once was.

—Not too far from here, he said. But it closed ages ago. Before my kids were born.

—Oye, Miraluz, this kid is looking for the old theater.

Bobby turned around to see Miraluz, a woman wearing fitted orange pants and a black T-shirt, two long braids going down her back. Miraluz paused and took a closer look at the apparition before her eyes.

—Ay, ay, ay, no me digas, she said and walked right up to Bobby, who was sitting. She put her arms around him, her breast in his face.

—Ay, Santo, amor, cuánto tiempo. Look at that face, you haven’t aged. It must be that Chinese skin. All these years and you look the same, she said, taking a swig from Bobby’s beer. —You haven’t changed a bit since you left for New York. Ay, dios mío. Santo Colón.

She was talking so fast, Bobby wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to get a word in edgewise. She rubbed his back and pulled him close. He could smell her hairspray, her makeup spread on his T-shirt, but she kept hugging him, feeling his arms, his face, his neck despite the sweat. He needed a shower from all the traveling. She took the beer bottle and rubbed it against her neck, against his forehead.

—Ay, Santo, so much has changed since you left.

Bobby wanted to tell her that he was his father’s son. His mother had told him many times how much he resembled his father, but to be mistaken for him? Besides, his father had left twenty years ago. Couldn’t they tell how much time had passed?

Bobby looked around and New York City felt very far away, a long time ago.

Then the colmado’s lights went out. —Se fue la luz, yelled the man behind the counter. How different could this place be from twenty years ago? Bobby didn’t see a computer, cell phones were the only indication that he was not in the past. But aside from the McDonald’s advertisements, it was hard to tell what year it was.

—This is Don Chan’s son, Santo Colón, she said to anyone who was listening.

Bobby tried to interject, but she covered his lips with her fingertips, rubbed his firm abs and grabbed his hair, tugging it in admiration.

Bobby had never met a woman like Miraluz. She was affectionate, comforting, and she had known his father. Maybe in ways his mother didn’t know his father.