She looked around and realized that the entire apartment was covered in a thin film of dust. She was trying to preserve every little bit of Santo that was left behind. But if she didn‘t start cleaning, maybe she too would wake up with a face full of wrinkles and a life that showed nothing for it. Don Chan‘s days might be numbered, but not hers.

Esperanza wiped the dust off the television screen with a piece of tissue, off the figurines on the shelves, off the photographs of Dallas and Bobby. She thought about getting a cloth and cleaning spray from the kitchen, but she couldn‘t tear herself away from the dust. Tissue would have to do. Her hands ached at the joints as she beat the curtains in the living room and lifted the shade. She turned on the lamps, and gathered the dust balls behind the reclining chair with her hands, looking forward to the moment she would be able to sit down so she could alleviate her tiredness with a glob of menthol spread around the back of her neck. She gathered the dust balls into one big mass of gray, and collapsed on the floor cross-legged, forming a small mountain of dirt with her hands. Her body felt heavy, her arms heavy, her legs, every inch of her collapsed into her body.

When the phone rang, she jumped. Every day, the collection agency called to harass her even after she explained that Santo had died. They threatened her with court, said that they could repossess everything in her home over a certain value if she didn‘t take immediate action.

Then the doorbell rang. Esperanza‘s heart skipped a beat again. Yes, lock me up and let me sleep. I don‘t care what you feed me, anything will be better than this life.

It was the postal worker with a box. It had been months since she‘d received a package in the mail. The thrill of receiving anything was a thing of the past.

—Could you sign, please? he asked her. A smile curled up from her lip for the first time since Santo‘s death. —What could it be? she said, holding the unlabeled box, trying to remember what she could‘ve ordered that had taken its time to reach her. The box was heavy enough to be substantial, but the weight didn‘t jar a memory.

—What did you get? Dallas climbed onto the chair at the kitchen table.

—Who knows? Esperanza felt a bit relieved that she didn‘t have to hide her purchases from Santo anymore.

Esperanza relished each tear of the box as if she was opening her last gift. From under the Styrofoam, she pulled out a dark gray clay urn. On it were the words:

Santo Colón de Juan Dolio,

Vaya con Dios.

2

Juan Dolio

1916–1922

Doña Caridad had spotted Don Chan washed up on shore in Juan Dolio.

—Where do you come from? She poked at little Chan’s unfamiliar face, his hair so shiny it looked blue in the sun and his eyes small as the eye of a needle.