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the story, for the hundredth time, about how she had dropped her cupcake during her granddaughter’s third-grade Valentine’s Day party, and Salva had given her his.
    The sun continued to shine as Beth talked. And talked and talked, letting her tongue flow as easily as her pencil when inspiration struck. She kept talking even when her throat grew dry and she had to clear it every few seconds. But then her stomach began to growl, and she realized it must be dinnertime. She’d forgotten her watch, of course. It seemed silly to wear a watch in a building where every room had a clock timed down to the exact second.
    Reluctantly, Beth reached for her backpack. “I should probably go. I’m on my own for supper tonight. Mom’s taking classes after work and attending meetings.”
    Grandma would be happy with that, though she wouldn’t have said. She didn’t like to encourage false hope. Still, she would want to know.
    “Love you ever.” Beth stood, then wound her way once around the oak tree, her eyes peering up to check for the long-lost squirrel. No tail flashed so she turned her attention down, slid back into her sandals, and headed for home.
    The weeds had grown clear up to the trailer. She should mow them, but it seemed a waste now that no one stayed here during the day; and soon it would be fall, the season defined by nature’s refuse. She picked her way along the path of flattened cheatgrass and tugged on the screen door.
    It stuck. She rattled the latch and jerked harder, until the door swung free with a bang.
    The trailer smelled of sour milk from cereal bowls. Beth sighed, letting her backpack obey gravity, then she stepped from the worn carpet on the right half of the room and crossed to the peeling linoleum on the left.
    The sink was disgusting. She forced herself to reach into the scum-covered water to retrieve a frying pan and wooden spoon, then turned over the dishpan and watched the cold liquid disappear down the drain. Beth flipped on the faucet, letting it run while the hot water decided whether to work.
    She detoured to the fridge and yanked open the freezer, too fast because a paper slid off the door. Eagerly, she reached into the open Popsicle box. One left. She grinned and tugged out the treat.
    The clear wrapper peeled away, and she tossed it into the garbage can, along with the box.
    Back to the sink to test the water.
Hot.
She slid the dishpan under the faucet, poured in the soap, then tasted the Popsicle. It was red, the flavor a bit like children’s medicine, but at least the treat was cold.
    Suds in the dishpan threatened the rim, and she turned off the water, then caught sight again of the fridge. And frowned. Her eyes swooped to the floor, where they spotted the fallen paper sticking out from beneath the stove. Quickly she scooped up the sheet, held it straight against the freezer door so the paper would be easy for her mother to read, then secured the Alcoholics Anonymous pledge with a bright pink-and-green butterfly magnet, Grandma’s favorite.

3
AND A GENTLEMAN
    The hot evening air blasted Salva in the face as he swung out of the school’s main doors and stepped into the parking lot. His chest felt numb and his arms and legs like they had been drained. That happened after ten extra laps.
    Dios, ayúdame.
    Salva’s father was in the parking lot. There was no mistaking that battered green pickup with its strips of duct tape along the lower half of the cab.
    His father’s words rang out the open window. “You are late.”
    Salva let his head fall back and his eyes rest on the still brilliant blue sky.
Would this day never end?
    He hauled his backpack and sweaty football clothes across the lot and up to the driver’s side door, then waited for the inevitable question of why he was the only football player still here.
    It didn’t come.
    He peered into the cab and saw the reason. Señora Mendoza, her hair up in a scarf, her lunch box on the dash, sat beside the passenger door. His father