—Where are you going? Don Chan asked again, nervous because he didn’t often leave Quepasó Street. He looked at the street sign and then to the next block to make sure he didn’t lose his way.

—Where you going so early on a Saturday, Abuelo?

—Against time if possible.

The answer threw Bobby off.

—You should walk west then, Bobby said, thinking that the football games in California were later than the games in New York City, which must mean that walking west was going against time. The west lagged behind, in the past. Bobby was heading east.

—Clever. Don Chan had never thought of Santo as clever. They crossed the street and turned on Broadway. Don Chan started to feel vulnerable. He didn’t often walk on Broadway, unless he knew where he was going.

—Don’t act so surprised.

Bobby wondered if Don Chan was planning to walk all fifteen blocks to the McDonald’s with him.

—Well, can you blame me? You never say much these days. How was I supposed to know you’re funny?

Don Chan allowed the silence between them as they walked on Broadway. He saw the police officer walking his beat on Quepasó Street and sucked his teeth. What right did they have to invade his country?

—Those Yanquis never get enough.

—So you saw how the Mets beat the hell out of those Yankees last game, Abuelo?

—We need to find a way to get the Yanquis out of here, Don Chan said, looking around to make sure no one was spying on their conversation. —If the Yanquis don’t leave, we’ll have another dictator for sure.

Bobby stopped and held his grandfather’s shoulders.

—Abuelo? It’s me, Bobby.

Suddenly the city of Nueva York revealed itself before Don Chan’s eyes.

—Of course you are, Don Chan said and patted his grandson’s face in recognition.

—You should go home, Abuelo. I have a ways to go.

—But I want to come with you.

—You can’t come with me.

—Your father always let me go with him.

—I’m not my father, Bobby said, remembering how his father had called him pendejo when he got jumped. Bobby had wished him dead. Santo was not only robbed, he got killed. Damn you, Papi, Bobby said to himself. Bobby clenched his jaw.

Don Chan felt a chill in his bones. He was underdressed, yet refused to wear a coat. The streets were filling up with Saturday shoppers. The line for the million-dollar lotto drawing was forming around the block.

—Do you think about your father?

—Could we not talk about him please? Bobby didn’t want to get worked up before McD’s. —Look, Abuelo, no disrespect, you should go back home. I don’t want you to get tired.

—I’m not tired.

—I’ll see you at home, a’ight. Stay on Broadway until you hit Quepasó. I’ll be home soon.

Bobby kissed Don Chan on the cheek and left before his grandfather could follow him. Don Chan stood on the corner and watched Bobby become smaller in the distance.