—This way I won’t forget.

That night Esperanza arrived home from work and stripped out of her clothes, wanting nothing more than to sleep on her own sheets and pillows. At first, she wasn’t sure about the Hernández job, but sleeping over there was an escape from the mess her apartment had become: piles of clothes in the hamper, mail to look through, vegetables going bad in the fridge, dust on the figurines on the shelves. She relied on Dallas for some things around the house, but child hands could keep order only to a point. In D.R., Dallas would’ve been ripe for training to have her own home, a husband, some children, but in Nueva York, Dallas was a child with breasts.

To her surprise, Dallas had left the dishes washed. The apartment was unusually calm. Dallas had even cleaned the bathroom. Esperanza could tell from the shine on the mirror. Seeing everything in order brought unexpected joy. Life wasn’t so bad.

She opened the children’s door to announce her arrival, and Dallas looked up and away from the television.

—I finished my homework, Dallas said before her mother asked.

—Did your grandfather eat dinner?

—Some.

—Where is he?

—Sleeping, I guess.

—So early?

—He looked tired.

—Was he not feeling well?

—I don’t know.

Dallas didn’t tear her eyes away from the television show. That damn Walkman and phone. Unless Esperanza called her out to do something, Dallas locked herself in her room. What could she be hiding in there? When she had been Dallas’s age, her father wouldn’t allow a door in Esperanza’s bedroom. And still, even with all her father’s supervision, Esperanza had run off with Santo.

Esperanza walked into her bedroom. Ever since Bobby went to prison, she felt as if she had forgotten something important. There was an emptiness in her house that couldn’t be filled even after she rearranged the furniture. But that wasn’t what was bothering her. There was something else that was different. She walked backward to retrace her steps. She looked around. She was too tired to try to make sense of it.

She peeked into Don Chan’s room.

—Are you all right?

—Why wouldn’t I be? Don Chan said and turned his back to be left alone.

Esperanza felt sorry for him. Don Chan reminded Esperanza of Mr. Hernández. They were about the same age, except Mr. Hernández had had a stroke and he slurred his words and couldn’t stand listening to himself. Esperanza preferred it that way.

In the kitchen, she put away the pots. She wasn’t hungry. It was as if Santo was on the other side of the wall. She batted away the buzzing around her ear, the tail of a whistle. A familiar tune. Santo’s tune.

She took a shower and prepared herself for sleep. But she couldn’t shake the feeling. Someone had definitely been in her bedroom, looking through her things. The top drawer was partly opened. In bed, her sheets felt heavy over her body. It was too early for sleep, but if she lay down, maybe the air pushing into her ears would cease. She spread her arms to feel that the other side of her bed was cold. She always slept on one side to keep from rumpling the sheets. It made it easier to make the bed in the morning. But then there was the emptiness. His side. As if it were waiting for him to appear.