—Ay, ay, ay, el dolor. It‘s killing me, Esperanza said, turning around into Hush‘s little body. Hush smelled like bread, sweet and spicy cloves.

Hush held Esperanza for a long time and said, —Mami says that the Lord lets the dead watch over us until we‘re ready to let go. And if he‘s watching, Miss Esperanza, I don‘t think your husband wants to see you in such a mess. I can tell you haven‘t combed your hair in days. Mami says that in this world, women with nappy heads don‘t got the luxury of not fixing their hair. Someone gonna think you a homeless or something.

Esperanza continued sobbing, hiding her face in Hush‘s jacket.

—Why don‘t we go inside, Miss Esperanza? It‘s dark out.

The Colón household had a white sheet thrown over it. The sunlight no longer came in. The phone hardly rang and no matter how high the stove was turned up, nothing boiled, fried, cooked quite right. Time moved slowly and wrapped itself around them, making it hard to walk through their days. Don Chan had no one to talk to, so he read the newspaper out loud, just so that he could listen to his voice. Esperanza was filled with Not now, Can it wait, I‘m so tired, comments that encouraged Bobby to find comfort on street corners where his friends yessed him to numbness. Dallas didn‘t take off her headphones, except when she was on the phone or when she was about to fall asleep.

And then time played a trick on the Colón family. Up until Santo‘s burial, Don Chan was slightly built, spine erect, and with a head full of hair. There were no wrinkles to speak of, except for the few that went across on his forehead, alluding to all the thinking he‘d done throughout the years. But overnight, he shriveled up into a prune. Esperanza was the first to notice the receding hairline and the bend to his back. At first, she looked away. She had enough to think about between running the house on her own, the bills, her children, without thinking about Don Chan‘s grief and deterioration.

Don Chan was ready to die alongside his son, and gravity was pulling him underground, skin, teeth, and all. His memories were starting to spin his head into a web, catching the beginnings and endings.

—Abuelo, what year is it?

—What kind of question is that, Dallas? Don‘t they teach you anything at school?

—C‘mon, Abuelo, tell me what year it is?

Dallas wanted to prove how her grandfather was forgetting things. He had called her Caridad one time and Bobby, Santo. He ducked when he heard a plane fly above him and pulled Dallas away from the window when a car backfired. At night, more than once he checked that the doors were locked.

Don Chan slapped his knee and shook his head.

—Leave your grandfather alone, Esperanza said, shooing Dallas away. Don Chan‘s skin dragged around the eyes. She looked over at the family photograph they had taken a few months after his arrival. It was as if the years had fallen on him in one big heap. Aging is supposed to happen slowly and carefully so as not to shake up the psyche.