—I don‘t know what we‘ll do.

—Well, then, we need a leader who does.

Don Chan didn‘t want Miraluz to abandon the circle.

—Wait, he said, not sure what he could offer her.

—I heard that people in the capital are organizing for the next election. Our first since 1930. Maybe that‘s something we can do. We can get the people of Los Llanos to vote, Don Chan said, wondering if it was his idea or Miraluz‘s.

She was trembling. She hadn‘t been prepared for her own outburst or for a response from him. She didn‘t know she had so much to say.

—Do you all agree? Don Chan asked the crowd, who didn‘t want to think about the possibility of losing their land. They already had too many worries.

—Whatever you say, Don Chan. Now hand me over a beer, one man said. —Who has a dirty joke to sweeten this night?

Nueva York

1992

Bobby arrived home barefoot on a Sunday. Esperanza and Santo were still not speaking to each other. It was impossible for Don Chan to find a place in the apartment where he didn‘t feel like he was in the way. So when the door bell rang, he went to answer it because it offered him something to do.

—You okay, Bobby?

Some kids from two blocks over Quepasó Street had stolen Bobby‘s sneakers and leather jacket.

—What happened to you? Santo asked, rushing at Bobby. His son had walked in socks on the cold winter streets.

—You just let them take your things? Santo took a pretend jab at him, to wake him up and get a reaction. Bobby didn‘t flinch. He fell back against the wall. He was still in shock from the robbery and angry with his father for pushing him around. Santo wasn‘t there. He hadn‘t seen the three guys, bigger and faster than Bobby, the way they had surrounded him and thrown him off his own feet. Before he could blink, they had his stuff and there was nothing he could do about it.

—Fuck you, he wanted to say to his father. —I ain‘t like you and I won‘t ever be like you.

—Santo, take it easy on the kid, Don Chan said, putting his hand on Santo‘s shoulder.

—You‘re the one who said we have to fight for what‘s ours. I‘m killing myself every day so some punk can steal from you and you don‘t fight back? Look at you, I could tell by your clean face that you handed it over to them. Santo inspected Bobby‘s face. Bobby held back tears while his father pushed him against the wall.

—It‘s a pair of sneakers, Don Chan said. —No, no, Santo, let the kid be.

Esperanza pulled Bobby toward her and held him. —Don‘t listen to him. He‘s a brute.

—Why is it that everyone thinks they can tell me what to do? Am I not the man of this house? He‘s my son and I do with him what I want.