—Now come on, Papà, there‘s no point in getting all worked up, Santo said, taking the bill and putting it in his pocket. —Can you both agree that both places have their good and bad? We should be happy we‘re alive.

—That‘s what has us all living in this shit hole. When Trujillo was in power, people said, At least we have roads now. People without cars loved Trujillo for the road they were never going to drive on.

Don Chan got up and paced. At least we are alive? Bullshit. He paced and couldn‘t stand his old body that wasn‘t at the speed of his mind. Santo had lost his cojones when he married Esperanza. He warned him about her kind. Humans, like dogs, came in types. Some were humbler than others, others more violent, and Esperanza was descended from a clan of opportunists. Her father waved Trujillo‘s flag as long as it bought them a house in the capital. And when Trujillo murdered innocent people, Esperanza‘s family looked away. Esperanza had money-grubbing blood in her, and Santo was forever doomed because of it.

—No te alteres, Viejo. Your heart is not what it used to be, Esperanza said. She noticed that Don Chan‘s hand had a slight tremor. There were moments when she felt sorry for him. A man with an unlived dream was a restless man. The least she could do was let him talk himself into his grave.

—She‘s right, Papà, best not to get upset.

—At least things are better in D.R., Esperanza said.

—The U.S. invaded us in sixty-five so that D.R. wouldn‘t turn into another Cuba. And look at it, D.R. is another Cuba, it‘s Batista‘s Cuba. We‘ve become whores for the tourists and U.S. aid.

Esperanza helped Don Chan sit down on the chair. He was an old man and frustrated, that‘s all. She could only imagine the torture if all her life she had worked for something and she didn‘t live her dream of buying her house, having her ranch, growing old with Santo beside her. What‘s the point of becoming upset with him? His days were numbered.

—I don‘t need your help, woman. I‘m not an invalid yet, Don Chan said, moving away from them, making his way into his bedroom.

—Look at you two. It‘s not so bad. You live like rats. Twenty-five locks on the maldita door, afraid someone is going to break in. Spending your days and nights sheltered from the cold, hoarding things in closets. Goddamn rats.

Was the life they lived so miserable looking to Don Chan? thought Esperanza. Couldn‘t he see how far they had come? Maybe there were things they could do to make the apartment more pleasant. Santo had yet to fix the crack on the tiles by the refrigerator. None of her cabinets closed because the paint was so thick. Maybe she could do some things to make the house less dark, less cavelike. She had wanted to get some brocade fabric to make curtains like the ones she had seen on Dallas. And some gold paint to paint over all the wood frames and old lamps. She loved gold. If done right, no one would know the difference. With a few repairs, her home could look like the display in the store windows she often admired.