Even after a couple of good, hot showers, and America trimming away the gnarls in her long, dark hair with some desk scissors, the fact remained that Zita only had the one shirt and jeans, and the girl was embarrassed by them. They weren’t hers and they didn’t fit right. Now that her initial fear had passed—a fear that had awoken the girl crying, screaming, in the middle of the night—Zita was animated, eager to talk. She was fascinated by everything in her new country. She was una pequeña urraca, as America’s mama would say—a little magpie—with a quick mouth and quicker fingers. America had found the girl’s tiny collection of stolen hair ties, gum, a TV Guide, a tiny black chess piece, and even a 9mm bullet—things she must have found in the couch cushions. Ben had played chess, and that lost piece, like the bullet, had been hidden in the apartment since his death. She turned it over and over in her hand for a long time before putting it back with Zita’s other treasures.

The bullet, however, she slipped into her own pocket.

Fox Uno was sitting at the tiny table in her kitchen, eating the eggs and tortillas she had made, when she told him she was taking Zita out.

If he had any thoughts about not letting Zita leave with her, he didn’t share them. He kissed the girl on the forehead and told her to behave.

America wanted to tell herself she was taking the girl shopping because it was the right thing to do, but she’d be lying.

There was another, more serious reason.

She wanted to get Zita alone and see what she would tell her about Fox Uno and their life across the river.

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