Don Chan never got tired of talking about what if over dinner. Esperanza cringed when Santo leaned forward to listen to Don Chan‘s every word. Don Chan tapped against the dinner table‘s edge, singing the notes of familiar songs out loud.

—¡Ay, Papà! Santo responded to every detail Don Chan handed over. And always the name Miraluz. There was never a story told without Miraluz.

Santo picked up where Don Chan left off as if it was just yesterday that Santo was holding his beloved battery-operated keyboard, bought used from a dead músico. Esperanza remembered the long hours Santo put in to find notes that turned into music; when he stayed up late nights looking for the keys, singing highs and lows, until his composition caught a melody. In D.R., he played his piano even when it had run out of batteries, despite Esperanza telling him that he played it badly. He played after she had blown out the candles, pulled down the sheets, and padlocked all the doors. He played as if he had found religion, trying to memorize his short compositions so he could continue when he had another minute to do so.

Santo started to hum in the apartment just like he did back in D.R. Don Chan hummed along with him. Esperanza turned on the radio and played the easy-listening station so that they would lose all the nostalgic rhythm. She was losing Santo to the island. He went from drinking Budweiser to Presidente. He was driving his taxi less and spending more time at home. The men leaned back on their chairs, gnawing at toothpicks and spitting jokes.

—Remember Caamaño, Don Chan said, inhaling his cigar as he thought about el Coronel Francisco Alberto Caamaño Deñó, who‘d spent years training a guerrilla army in Cuba to liberate Dominican Republic, and once he arrived in ‘73, he found that his comrades who stayed behind were missing fingers or were standing in line to make money off the new government.

—Who gives a shit anymore, Esperanza interrupted them, handing Santo the electric bill that needed to be paid in person because it was already one month late.

—A lot of people give a shit. You don‘t give a shit, Don Chan said, and then told Santo, —and you stopped giving a shit when you came here. You‘re so busy trying to pay the bills, there‘s no time to think in this country.

—And that isn‘t true in D.R.? Esperanza challenged him. —People are so hungry, they think the stars are UFOs.

—It‘s different in D.R. We have our tongue. Our peace of mind. Something beautiful to look at when we walk out of our house.

—What‘s so beautiful about Los Llanos? There‘s nothing left but trees.

—The flamboyan trees would be offended by that comment.

—Even the flamboyan tree knows that at first everything is full of flowers, but then it all goes to shit.

—And what about the hibiscus flowers that always rage with color? The brilliant sky that mimics the ocean, the fresh fruit at our disposal, free from all those chemicals you consume, that are turning your body into a breeding ground for cancer.