—Never, Esperanza chirped with pride. —We always have lights.

Esperanza distracted Don Chan‘s attention away from the cigarette butts pushed up against the walls and the graffiti in the lobby. She hurried Don Chan along to escape the smell of pot and piss in the elevator.

—Doesn‘t anyone clean here? Don Chan asked.

—The super‘s off on the weekends, Esperanza said, frustrated that they still couldn‘t afford to move into a nicer building. —Don Chan, don‘t be ungrateful, Esperanza said as she walked slightly ahead of them. —He went from pissing in the dirt, with a house with no roof and he‘s complaining.

Esperanza threw her bags on the small yellow velvet sofa that was reupholstered in clear plastic. She opened the window. —It‘s either too hot or too cold, she said and moved about nervously to make room for Don Chan‘s things.

Don Chan held his face in his hands. The pressure against his cheeks reassured him. He looked out the window to see the Dominican flag waving from a corner lamppost. Some boys stood on the corners with hoods protecting their faces from the cold; fruit vendors rubbed their hands between serving customers; ambulance sirens wailed from a distance, cars double-parked all along the street; salsa blared from the back of one car and merengue from the other. He felt a headache coming.

—And where are my grandchildren? Don Chan asked, looking around at the cramped living room.

—La maldita televisión has them. Muchachos, your grandfather‘s home, Santo yelled. Slowly, they piled out of the dark bedroom.

—Roberto, come over here and kiss your grandfather. You might not remember me, but as a kid you followed me around all over Los Llanos.

Don Chan reached his arms out to Bobby and grabbed him. Bobby stared at his sneakers when he said hello and quickly pulled away. Look up, boy, Don Chan wanted to say.

—Call him Bobby. In America, he‘s Bobby, Esperanza said.

—Bobbi?

Don Chan pronounced an o sound versus an a sound.

—No, it‘s Bobby.

—Bobbi, he said again, Bobbi, Bobbi, struggling with his tongue to get it right. Upset that Esperanza changed Roberto María‘s name, when he was named after his great uncle, who had saved twenty-two people from drowning in a flood after a hurricane.

—Damn, boy, you‘re the spitting image of your father. My goodness, the same caramelo skin, shy eyes, a strong nose. That means you‘ll be able to make decisions. And tall too. What are you now, thirteen years old? Isn‘t that true, Esperanza?

—He has his father‘s attitude too.

Esperanza pulled Bobby away from him.

—And you, Dallas—is that how you say it? Come over here. I came all the way from Dominican Republic to meet you.

Don Chan wondered if his all-American granddaughter, born in Puerto Rico, understood a word he said. She was ten years old, still allowing her mother to comb her hair and put it in pigtails.

—Bendición, Abuelo. She gave him a kiss. She had the face of Doña Caridad. Round cheeks with dimples. Almond-shaped eyes and pink, full lips. —Hit me again.