—Hey, Don Chan! A redheaded, full-figured woman in high heels hopped over the snow piles toward him and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. —Don‘t tell me it‘s been that long, she said and waved Santo‘s car over and pulled Don Chan‘s suitcases across the slush with one arm.

—What happened to your hair? he asked, marveling at the bright red that stood out among all the gray that made up the city. Esperanza was full of color: bright lips, cheeks, eyes, hair. A voluminous green full-length coat hid the weight she‘d gained in the States.

—Qué loco eres, Viejo.

Esperanza rushed Don Chan across the street before the traffic light changed. People bumped against each other‘s bodies, without apologizing. She wrapped her scarf around his neck. —They still haven‘t invented the cure for the cold. With all the great things America has done, they still haven‘t figured that out, Esperanza said.

—If they invent the cure for the cold, who‘d they sell all their medicines to? He had forgotten how naive she was.

—We have to hurry or they will give Santo a ticket.

Santo Colón. His only son. Suddenly, the violent cold weather and noise became a secondary concern for Don Chan. He patted down his hair and his stomach fluttered with anticipation.

Esperanza pushed the grocery bags from the backseat to one side to make room for herself. She watched Santo and Don Chan embrace outside the car before they put his things in the trunk. She made a promise to herself that she‘d be optimistic. Don Chan was too old to be much trouble anymore. Maybe in Dominican Republic, he had Santo carrying out his every whim, but Santo was no longer a boy. He was a man with his own family, and Esperanza was his wife. Besides, he was living in her home now, and if he gave her a hard time, she‘d send him back to live out his last days alone in his miserable campo.

—Coño, Santo, you‘re all bones, son. Is this woman feeding you? Don Chan asked as he climbed into the front seat.

Santo laughed. Esperanza bit her tongue.

—Or did the cold eat away at your meat?

—How was the flight? Santo asked, keeping his eye on the road.

—Slept through it.

Esperanza took care of plenty of old people and could tell that he hadn‘t slept a wink.

—Feels like a long way from home, doesn‘t it? Santo asked.

From the sea, to Juan Dolio, to Los Llanos, to Nueva York.

Not far enough, Esperanza thought.

Picking up Don Chan at the airport reminded Esperanza of how eager she had been to arrive in Nueva York. To Esperanza, New York City had always been Nueva York—an oasis of opportunity. And when she first saw all the trees in the distance, she had imagined that the Southfork Ranch in Dallas, Texas, was not too far off.

When she first arrived, many of the businesses on Broadway changed hands. She could only catch the tail end of the mom-and-pop sandwich shop specializing in deli meats, the specialty children‘s clothing store owned by a Cuban lady, who kept saying, —These Dominicans are making a mess around here. She didn‘t have time to get attached to, let alone miss, the neighborhood it once was before it became Nueva York. A neighborhood filled with fruit markets, a corner bookstore, the small photo shop that stank of unwashed scalp and damp wool, the five-and-dime that didn‘t sell anything for less than a quarter, or the bakery display cases of rugelach and babka. Of course, there were still traces of what the neighborhood had once been in the seventies, but the relics of time that belonged to older immigrants much like herself were quickly disappearing. She walked into a neighborhood in the early eighties celebrating the grand openings of freshly painted bodegas, travel agencies, botànicas, liquor and discount stores.