The boy didn't run. He looked at the coffee can. Then he looked back at Lazaro.
"You're the man," the boy said. It came out in pieces between breaths. "With the can. You're the man with the can."
Lazaro set the jet down on the towel. He did it slowly, the way you set things down around a spooked horse. "That's me."
"My mom won't wake up." The boy's voice cracked straight through the middle. "She's on the floor and she won't wake up and she's making a noise like, like snoring but wrong, and her mouth is a weird color, and she said, she always said, if something ever happened and she couldn't help, I should come find the man with the can. Please. Please, mister. You have to come. Please save her."
Lazaro was already standing. He did not remember deciding to stand. The knee screamed at him and he ignored it. He took two of the white boxes from the coffee can, then a third, and stuffed them into the pocket of his vest, and he went to the saddlebag hanging off the stand and took out a zippered pouch the size of a paperback that he had not opened in a long time except to check the dates on what was inside.
"How far?" he said.
"Over the tire place. On Fulton." The boy was pointing, his whole arm shaking. "Upstairs. The door's open, I left it open."
Two blocks. Two blocks on that knee. "Okay," Lazaro said. "You lead. Go as fast as you can and don't wait for me. I'll be right behind you. What's your name?"
"Emiliano. Emi."
"Okay, Emi. Go."
The boy went. Lazaro went after him.