"No, sir," Kiara said. "Can't see it at all."
"That's because I did it right." He sat. The chair tipped back a little and he grabbed the armrests, startled, and then laughed, a real laugh, high and surprised. "This is a chair for astronauts."
"That's what I said," said Kiara.
Inez had turned away. She was standing in the doorway to the kitchen with the phone against her ear, her back to them, her free hand pressed flat against the doorframe like she was holding up the house.
"Dawn. It's Inez. He's here. He's at the house. My house — his house. The old one. Yes. Yes, I know. No, he's fine. He's — he took the bus. Two buses." A pause. "I don't know how he remembered. I don't know. He's in slippers." Another pause, longer. Her voice dropped so low Luz could barely hear it. "No, don't. Don't send anyone. I'll bring him. I'll bring him back myself. Just give me — I don't know. Give me a couple hours. We close at — the new owner is coming at three. I know. I know, Dawn. I'm not — I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Tell the police I'm sorry."
She hung up. She stood there with her hand on the doorframe.
It was 1:47 in the afternoon. The rented truck had to be back at the place on Menaul by six or they'd pay for another day, which they could not do. The new owner, Mr. Bek, whom Luz had met once in July when he'd walked through touching every windowsill as if checking for fever, was coming at three for the final walkthrough and the keys. Her mother had a shift at the pharmacy at seven. All of this had been written on the whiteboard on the refrigerator for six weeks, in lines like THURS — GARAGE (ME) and FRI — LUZ'S ROOM (TOGETHER), with together underlined twice.
They had not done it together. Her mother had done it, and Luz had held the boxes.
Aurelio was spinning slowly in the gaming chair, a quarter turn one way, a quarter turn back, looking at the walls. At the bare nail over the fireplace where the painting of the Sandias had hung, the one Abuela Pilar had bought at a church sale for eight dollars and he had refused, for thirty years, to let anyone call ugly.
"Inez," he said. "Where are my things?"
Her mother turned around.
Luz would think about this later, many times. Her mother had had six weeks to prepare an answer to that question, had probably practiced it, and when it finally came, from a man in plaid slippers in a gaming chair, she opened her mouth and nothing at all came out.