“Why can’t you listen to me? I’ve been going to Vozes my whole life.”

Pedro pulls out the map on his phone and shows everyone that Vozes is on the other side of the Avenida Coqueirais tunnel.

“There’s a new bike route cutting right through. Why not follow it? It’s safe from traffic, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Didn’t you ask me to lead the way?” I retort.

We continue to argue as rain starts pouring down. PC yells that he’s not waiting at this parking lot one second longer and letting the storm ruin his hair.

“Just follow her instructions already,” he begs.

And Pedro gives in.

It’s true, heading into the Avenida Coqueirais tunnel would have been easier. But that wasn’t the problem. The truth is that I can’t take that path.

I don’t tell them that’s where Dad died.

It was a motorcycle accident. I found out about it when I was a kid. I didn’t know a lot about Dad then—it has always hurt Mom to talk about him—and I still don’t. Just enough to avoid the avenue the same way Mom does. The same way Grandma did. Making a detour here, another there. Avoiding the tunnel. Avoiding the darkness.

The extra blocks we ride to get to Vozes stretch on and on.

There are big puddles along the way, and we weave around rush hour cars. I lower my head to avoid getting my glasses wet, but it’s useless. Bright car lights are double their size through my rain-streaked lenses. Now and then I check that the box is safe, keeping a hand on Victor’s shoulder for balance.

When we finally get to Vozes, I squint through my wet lenses, guiding us to the side entrance. Victor pulls a pack of tissues out of his bag. “For your glasses,” he says, extending one to me.

“Thanks,” I say smiling. When I reach to take it, Pedro stomps forcefully in between us, his ears turning a purplish shade.

PC and Cintia exchange a look, and then we all head inside.

No one’s around in the dining room. The kids’ voices echo from the back of the house, the bustle of excited games, high-pitched laughter, and adults’ lower tones coming through now and then to guide the activities.

“The kitchen is closed off, so we should assemble the quentinhas here,” I explain, and I’ve barely finished talking before Pedro already starts unboxing everything. Sure, he’s an annoying Molina, but he’s proactive like an experienced volunteer. I’ll give him that.

“Now look what the rain’s washed into Vozes,” Dona Selma says behind us.