“I walked up to the door of the shed to knock. It was open, so I went inside. Tools were hung neatly on C hooks lining the walls. My soccer ball lay on a workbench on top of some gloves, the fingers black with soil. I turned to the door to my left. I’d never been on that side of the shed before. I knocked on the door lightly. ‘Ricki?’

“No answer.

“A burning curiosity rose in me. I placed my hand on the doorknob and turned, pushing it open slowly, entering with my eyes first. Releasing my hand, I turned it over to see it was blackened slightly. Greased fingerprints dulled the light spilling onto the faux brass knob. A twin bed with a blue comforter was pushed against the far wall. The bed was neatly made, and above it was a bookshelf fashioned from a two-foot piece of 2x6 lumber and little wire hangers. Seven well-worn paperbacks stood against the wall, looking lonely even on the two-foot shelf. A pair of boots sat facing me on a crate by the bed. A cloth and some black Kiwi polish were strewn in front on the floor. A thin, blue woven mat covered the center of the room and its edges met the clean concrete floor.

“No windows.

“And no dresser. Clothes were folded neatly along the wall adjacent to the bed: some T-shirts, shorts, two pairs of jeans, and a gray dress shirt with a purple tie lying on top. That was all.

“‘Fernando? What are you doing in here?’

“I’m sure I visibly shook. His voice startled me, and I was trespassing in his bedroom. ‘I came to get you. I—we’re supposed to go to town to get bougainvillea.’

“Ricki stood in the doorway in dirty cutoff jeans. His dark eyes perused me, scolding and curious at once. A day’s growth of beard stood out against his tan face. I reached into my pocket to feel for the money my mother had given me and I felt myself getting hard. I was staring at his stomach and the trail of dark, curly hair that rose out of his jeans and spread itself thinly across his chest. He closed the door behind him and crossed to where I was standing by his bed. Placing his hand on my shoulder, he said, ‘You know, you left your soccer ball in the roses yesterday.’

“‘Yeah, I saw it on the workbench,’ I stammered, smelling his deodorant working overtime against the heat.