—I‘m going home.

The Colón family was sleeping when the phone call came through. Esperanza burst into the children‘s bedroom, wearing slippers and a sweater over her nightgown.

—Get dressed, Dallas, get dressed. Esperanza turned on all the lights in the apartment, as if the lights themselves could alleviate the pain she was feeling. —Bobby, make sure Dallas wears her gloves and hat, and hurry, we have to go to the emergency room.

Bobby ran to the closets, pulling Dallas with him. He tucked their jeans inside their boots, and wrapped their necks and chins with loosely knitted scarves while Esperanza prayed Don Chan wouldn‘t wake up. He was too old to get such a scare.

—Andale! Let‘s go before your abuelo wakes up.

Santo‘s death had been a quick one. He was stabbed in the neck, right below his earlobe. The same pressure point that, if you press hard enough, you can give yourself a shot of pain that goes straight to the head, causing a headache that lasts hours if not days. The part of the neck that if kissed, licked, or touched softly would arouse desire. A steak knife cut through his flesh and tore into the artery, which stopped the blood from flowing to his brain. The thief knew to twist the knife and pull it out so that the blood gushed.

The police found Santo dead inside his black sedan, which had a thin red stripe all along the sides. He was wearing the heavy, acrylic brown coat Esperanza had bought him at a double-reduced sale at Macy‘s. He was wearing his gloves when he was stabbed, which hid the brand-new shiny silver watch Esperanza had given him for Christmas. The autopsy reports showed that the knife tore open the glove, cutting a vein on his wrist. They took his car radio, his gold necklace, the cash he earned that night, the rabbit‘s foot that hung from the rearview mirror.

The nurse who had called Esperanza was waiting with a pile of papers for Esperanza to sign. Esperanza shoved winter hats over the children‘s heads and pushed them out into the cold city air. Piled snow gathered on the sidewalk. They were all so quiet, Dallas wondered if they would ever speak again. Esperanza struggled to hold herself together as they walked up Broadway, deep into the night. The same street the children had walked up countless times with their father, to pick up bread for their mother at Greenbaum‘s, a Jewish bakery where they made fresh bread every day like they do downtown.

—Ya sabes, don‘t be bringing me no bread from those bodegas around here. Every time I try and bite into the shit they sell, I lose a tooth.

It was the same bustling Broadway the children had seen countless times from their father‘s shoulders, filled with people going to sneaker, stereo, and furniture stores. Beauty salons doubled as travel agencies, smoke shops doubled as arcades, bodegas that were plastered with stickers. Flower shops, botànicas, 99-cent stores. Street carts selling empanadas, helado de coco, habichuelas con dulce, pastelitos. Stores spilling out into the sidewalks with racks of plàtanos, T-shirts, jeans, detergents, and plastic food containers. Spanish music blasted onto the street from stores, out of cars, from people‘s headphones.