Her phone rang mine instead. I almost didn't answer it.
"Mija," she said. "Show me your shoe."
"Abuela, it's fine."
"Video. Turn on the video. Show me."
I turned on the camera. I pointed it at my foot. I sat down on the floor and peeled back a little of the tape so she could see, because I knew she'd make me anyway.
She didn't say anything for a while. I could hear her kitchen radio in the background, a Spanish station out of Yakima, a man selling tires.
"How long," she said.
"Since like October? It's not a big deal. Mom said after the first."
"After the first of what?"
"December. She said things'll loosen up."
"Mm," Abuela said. It was a sound she made when somebody at the bus barn told her a part was fine when it wasn't. "And what's this I hear in the background? Who's that singing?"