I find him later, in a stairwell. He’s sitting with his wrists on his knees, breathing hard. Now I see there are two Carloses: the charming one who kicks a soccer ball and gives out chocolate bars. And this one, his voice tight with grief. We start to talk—slowly—and he tells me about his own journey here, after his aunt sent for him. There were the trains and the coyote he met at a border town. The days that were so hot his belt buckle singed his fingers; the freezing nights, scrabbling over hard ground, overhead the stars like flashing knives. Once he crouched next to a pile of old bones bleached from the desert sun—those who’d crossed and didn’t make it.

“Why did you leave?” I ask.

“After I lost my patron I went to a different school, where there were boys who picked on me. Then these other guys beat them up. They told me they wanted me to join them. A gang.” He takes a while before he speaks again. “I kept saying no. I tried to do like before. I would go and draw the tourists that came in the main square. But one night I was followed. They took everything—my pencils and they slashed up my drawings. They said they needed me because my English was good, and next time it would be worse. I didn’t believe them. I thought they were just big-mouth boys throwing their weight around. I went to the place where I buy my supplies. A little shop. The owner sometimes gave me things on credit. And I guess…” Here he falters.

“Carlos?”

“They found him. He was hurt bad. He went to the hospital.” He adds, “It was all my fault.”

He rubs the inside of his arm. “My aunt sent me the money and I ran away. And when I finally got here, I had the tattoo done. It’s me as two fishes, swimming away. You can see the bones inside too. The bones I saw in the desert.”

I watch his chest draw inward, as if gathering all his strength. “You wouldn’t believe it, but when we moved from Connecticut to Long Island a few months ago, at the high school, they thought my tattoo meant I was part of a gang. So stupid. Like the guys I’m running from! They sent some policeman to talk to me.” He adds, “I feel like I’m always running.”

We both go quiet. I feel a small pulse of recognition, remembering our suitcase, always packed in the closet. Carlos’s lips are beautiful, curved. But his eyes are sad, so sad. We keep a space between us, almost because touching might hurt too much.

“Me too,” I finally say.