Fernando regarded this kindly matron as she regarded him in turn—Chico’s mother, his own mother’s cousin. Looking at Emmanuella, Fernando saw no resemblance whatsoever between her and Carmencita, except perhaps for an utter absence of pretension, which would have endeared her to him even were she no relation of his own.

Fernando curved a smile down at her. Her eyes went wide as he did so, as though she’d seen a ghost. A work-tumbled hand fluttered to her breast.

“My,” Emmanuella said faintly, “but you do have Carmen’s smile.”

This intrigued Fernando. He’d have pressed her on it, but a sudden hiss of steam from the stove behind her drew her attention away.

From seemingly out of nowhere, a girl of about twelve was summoned—Chico’s sister, Fernando presumed. Together with Emmanuella, the girl helped to set the big scrubbed table leveled with cardboard, yet seeming to sag and list despite this.

While Fernando and the others culled together a random assortment of chairs, Chico’s mother and sister laid out the heaped, steaming plates. They poured glasses of milk from a chipped pitcher whose glazed handle was wound fast with tape.

Catching the girl’s eye, Fernando thanked her for his glass. She gave him a wild-eyed look of panic in return. Ducking her head, she fled blushing from the room. Chico snickered after her.

“That was Mercedes,” he said to Fernando. “I think she likes you.”

The five of them dug in like fieldhands. Though simple country fare, the food was uncommonly good. When Fernando expressed this sentiment to Emmanuella, she waved him off with a duskier version of her daughter’s embarrassed flush.

Fernando and his friends cleaned their plates, then set to cleaning up themselves. While they showered off out back in a rickety stall fitted with a poled hosepipe, Chico rustled up fresh clothes for them. Fernando’s fit him best, as he was roughly Chico’s size. Pepe’s ankles and wrists showed a few glaring inches, however.

“Wear these, and roll up your sleeves,” Chico said to Pepe, thrusting a pair of cowboy boots at him, which were at least a half-size too small.

The arms of Lalo’s shirt bulged along the seams, but Chico gave him an approving nod nevertheless. Tito’s borrowed clothes hung baggily from him. He glowered at his reflection, looking even more like a little punk than usual.

“I should go to my place and change.”

“Go ahead,” Chico said sneering. “Just don’t expect us to still be here when you get back. We’re not waiting around on your ugly ass.”

Tito threw him a glare. “…Fuck you,” he muttered, bending down to double-up the hems of his jeans.

He cast Fernando a half-hopeful glance, which Fernando dismissed. He was combing his fingers through his damp hair when Chico clamped him by the shoulders, jostling him.

“Enough of that, primo, you’re making me wet.”

Fernando grinned, elbowing him in the ribs. Chico fell back sniggering. He smacked something smallish and sharp-edged into Fernando’s hand. It was a condom encased in square foil.

Winking at him, Chico said slyly, “In case you want to start on that list of yours.”

As they were leaving the room, Fernando paused by the window. He flicked the condom out through it, into the tangled weeds below.

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