—No, son. They want to turn you against me. They want you to hate me. But hate is not born son, it’s taught.

—Papi’s dead, Abuelo.

—Dead? Santo, why you play games with me? They giving you something strange that’s making you crazy? I’m trying to tell you I was wrong.

—Wrong about what?

—About everything. Don Chan looked around. He started to whisper. —It’s my fault you’re so angry. You were just a baby, you see, and I filled your brain with hate. You could barely say your name and I was asking you to say the word perejil. Perejil. Try and say that word, Santito. Try and say the word. See if you could roll your r’s or if your tongue betrays you.

—Calm down, Abuelo…that was a long time ago, Bobby said, reaching out to him.

—And I made you say the word perejil and you fumbled over the word, your tongue too short to roll yours r’s, and then…

Don Chan raised his arm, as if he were about to slap Bobby, but he was trying to use his arms as a machete. —Now, in the name of Trujillo, you die.

The guards approached him.

—Is everything okay? the guard asked.

Bobby looked over and nodded. Don Chan leaned closer to Bobby.

—Don’t you think he deserves to die, Santo? Shouldn’t we pray for his death before we go to bed? And you prayed out loud before bed, Diosito, I ask you to take care of Mami and Papi and que se muera Trujillo también. I’m so sorry, son, for pushing you so hard.

Another apology. Esperanza apologized, Don Chan apologized. But Bobby felt responsible for getting himself in his own mess. He shouldn’t have taken the gun from White-boy Arnold. He shouldn’t have shot the guy. What was he thinking? He wasn’t thinking. He was trying to protect Dallas and Hush, but he wasn’t thinking at all. Damn, Bobby said, getting angry at everyone. Angry at his father for dying on him. Because maybe if he would’ve still been around, he would’ve never left the apartment that day. Maybe if his mother hadn’t asked him to get a job, he wouldn’t have been dodging her and maybe he would’ve been home for ten more minutes, and White-boy Arnold wouldn’t have seen him. —Fuck, Bobby said and slammed his fist against the table, forgetting where he was. Don Chan leaned back. The guards hovered over Bobby.

—Are you sure everything’s okay? the guard asked Don Chan.

—You trying to protect me from my own son? Don Chan got up. To do what, he didn’t know. But he didn’t need protection. His son was no criminal. Why did they have him wear those clothes as if he were a criminal?

Esperanza returned, freshened up.

—Those guards must get something from feeling us up. I’m sure they don’t need to be checking us so thoroughly.

Fifteen minutes: The loudspeaker announced that they were running out of visitation time.