When he was in Los Llanos, it was the way of Don Chan, and now in Nueva York, Esperanza watched his every move, telling him what to do and not to do. On the streets, he got crap from the cops, at the taxi base they kept upping the fees without warning, so Santo had to work more hours to make his weekly goal. All because he let people push him around.

—You‘re going to learn how to fight, Santo said and dragged Bobby into the imaginary boxing ring in the living room. The entertainment center and sofa were the ropes. Santo let Dallas play referee.

—You, Dallas, watch and learn. I don‘t want any sleazy guy messing with a daughter of mine.

—Okay, Bobby, hit me.

—Santo, he‘s a child, Don Chan said, sitting in the corner.

—So was I, Papà, and that never stopped you.

—What are you talking about? Don Chan tried to hold Santo back. Santo pulled away from Don Chan and started to hop around like a boxer.

—C‘mon, kid, show me what you got, Santo said, bouncing around him.

—Don‘t punk out in front of your abuelo. Tell him, Papà, what you did to me when I arrived home with the empty buckets of water because I dropped them on the way.

—That was a long time ago, I don‘t know what you‘re talking about. Don Chan fidgeted in his chair. His face gathered into a tight map of wrinkles as his hands pushed up against his face, trying to remember.

—Back in the day, punks like you would have calluses on their knees from kneeling on rice.

—Remember that, Papà. Every time I messed up, you made me kneel until my knees bled, so I didn‘t mess up again.

—Leave him alone, Esperanza yelled at Santo.

—When you going to become a man, Bobby? Eh? If you had earned those sneakers, you wouldn‘t let someone take your stuff right off your feet.

Bobby was barely thirteen years old. He wasn‘t going to hit his father. Santo kicked Bobby on the leg and then tried to jab him in the gut and before Bobby knew what was going on, he was down.

—Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…That was Dallas‘s favorite part. And when Bobby was down on the floor, Dallas counted; pounding her fist on the floor next to his face like she had seen it many times during the boxing matches.

—You gonna let your father beat you up? Don‘t be a pendejo, Bobby, only because you‘re smaller doesn‘t mean you can‘t win. Isn‘t that what you taught me, Papà? That we could win no matter how many bombs they throw at us, that a machete in the hand of a smart man is more dangerous than a gun in the hand of a stupid man. Wasn‘t that what you said?

—Santo, why don‘t we all sit down and talk.

—Look who the punks are now, Papà. After all that bullshit we went through, look at us.