Don Chan looked up and down Quepasó Street when he exited the building, as if there was traffic on the sidewalk. It was his way of making sure nothing had changed, and if it did, he would prepare for it. The cars were double-parked on the left side of the street, Styrofoam containers with pernil, arroz, habichuelas, and tostones leftovers. The van driver, heading to the factory across the river, waved over to him as he waited for his passengers on the corner. Monday morning. Everything was in its place.

—Hola, Chino.

The man at the newsstand was already behind his counter and had Don Chan’s three newspapers ready for him.

—You beat me today, Don Chan said.

—And you’re not dead yet, the man at the newsstand joked.

Don Chan had the exact change in his pocket. He headed over to the corner luncheonette. His booth was free. He had forgotten his scissors. Where had he placed them? He searched on the floor. In three years of living in Nueva York, he had never forgotten his scissors. Don Chan walked back to the apartment. He went back to his bed and lay down with his clothes and shoes still on. He looked over at his calendar. He was about to mark Tuesday but then remembered it was Monday and he had already put an X over the box that morning. He walked over to his closet. He stared at the neat closet of guayaberas, pants, and wool cardigans. He had forgotten something. His newspapers at the luncheonette. He’d left them on the table. Bobby and Dallas were up. The television was on. They were getting ready to go to school. Dallas had made herself cereal.

—Want some, Abuelo?

—Did you lose something? Bobby asked, wondering why he wasn’t at the luncheonette.

—My scissors, he said, and surprised himself. —My scissors! That’s right, he was looking for his scissors.

Bobby went to his grandfather’s bedroom and saw the scissors on his nightstand.

—Here you go, Bobby said. —Are you sure you’re okay?

—Sí, sí, Don Chan said and went back to the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, starting up again, walking out of the apartment. Looking east and west, the cars were no longer double-parked. The sanitation trucks had already emptied the garbage cans. —Monday, Monday, Monday, Don Chan said to not forget. His markers of the day were in the past. He walked over to the newsstand.

—The usual, he said to the man at the newsstand.

—What happened to the ones I sold you this morning?

—Oh yes…those…I left them at the luncheonette, I will see if they are still there.

Don Chan hurried over to the luncheonette. The three newspapers were waiting for him. The booth was empty. He ordered his café. He took out his scissors. He periodically looked up to make sure Bobby and Dallas left the apartment on time so they wouldn’t be late for school.

Esperanza had worked for three different clients in an effort to make enough money to pay off her debt. The financial adviser from the local credit union sat down with her after Santo died and told her that if she couldn’t afford to pay more than the minimum balance on her bills, she would have to pay the credit cards for at least thirty years.