—Don Chan is waiting over there, Bobby said and pointed at the old man sitting on the edge of the malecón by the chimichurri stand.

Miraluz looked back at Bobby. She touched his face in disbelief.

—It’s like you brought Santo back from the dead. Miraluz rushed across the street to Don Chan.

Esperanza had forgotten cold showers. Pura had boiled some water and placed it in the bucket by the tub, but the water was still cold enough to lift all the little hairs around her body. Pura didn’t wear a stitch of makeup and her skin had a deep orange glow under the caramel color that Esperanza’s clan was famous for. Pura never seemed hurried, as if every day was the same as the next. She kept her home in order in all its sparseness and had the percolator going all day, waiting for the next person to pass by to sit in her backyard for some gossip. Two sisters couldn’t be more different. While Pura was seven years her elder, Esperanza didn’t think twice about bossing Pura around.

—Pura, don’t you have the towels I sent you? These towels don’t dry.

—I gave those towels to Luisa, Pura said. Their other sister had moved to Santiago with her husband to raise goats that fed on oregano.

—Why do you give away what I send you? That’s why Pura never progressed.

—You want some coffee? Pura went to sit in the backyard in the sun.

—The sun will give you cancer. Esperanza shaded her eyes.

—At my age, who cares? Pura shooed away the chicken that she hadn’t had the heart to kill.

—Dallas, come help me separate all these clothes before the vultures get here, Esperanza said, looking at all the clothes she had packed. And piled the plastic garbage bags she planned to label with each family member’s name.

—You’re giving this away? Dallas pulled out a pair of jeans that her mother had bought her, but that were too small. —I might fit into these one day.

—Put it in your suitcase. But take it before everyone gets here. You have no idea how crazy it gets.

Esperanza remembered the joy she used to feel when someone returned from America with clothes for them to wear. And how they all fought over the newer pieces. This time she was the one giving things away. Maybe she hadn’t accomplished what she had set out to do just yet, but when she looked at all the things she’d brought for her family, the history was there inside the clothes, she saw her labor. Every piece of clothing she had earned from her own sweat. Every hour of sweat was inside each garment. She picked up a dress she had worn when Santo was still alive. She had worn it once. How much did she pay for it? Was it forty dollars? Five hours of work for that dress. The thought made her want to take it back. The family would never appreciate that. No, they had no idea what she went through to buy all those things only to then lug them over, all the way from New York City.