When I step into Diego's room, I notice a foldable cot set up beside the bed, topped with a big pillow, two plush blankets, and a quilt.
"That's Ma's handiwork," Diego says, nodding toward the setup.
I nod and set my things down.
Then the silence stretches between us.
"Do you want to go for a walk?" Diego asks at last.
"Sure," I say quietly.
My whole world feels like it's collapsed in on itself.
We step into the kitchen and find Dad and Aunt Val deep in conversation at the table, their heads bent together over half-finished beers. The room smells faintly of garlic, coffee gone cold, and ripe citrus. When they see us, both of them go still.
"Hey, Ma, we're gonna walk around the block," Diego says, tugging at a curl near his temple like he always does when he's trying to seem relaxed.
"Okay, Mijo. Be safe, and be home before it gets dark," Aunt Val says, her voice soft but tired.
Dad doesn't even look up. He's still wearing his wedding ring, the gold band catching the light every time he moves his hand. I wish he would look at me. Really look at me. We've barely spoken since Mom died. Every time I see him now, it feels like he's farther away than if he'd left the house entirely. He isn't living, not really. He's just… moving through the hours, one drink at a time.
Without lifting his gaze, he reaches for his beer and takes a long swig. His jaw tightens, shoulders hunched in on themselves like he's trying to make his body smaller than the grief inside it.
My stomach twists. I barely recognize him anymore.
The Miami heat smothers us the moment we step outside, heavy and wet, like the air itself is pressing a hand against my chest. The sidewalk radiates warmth through the bottoms of my shoes. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks behind a chain-link fence, music plays low from an open window, and the sweet stink of overripe mangoes drifts from a yard across the street. It's the kind of heat that makes the neighborhood feel like it's holding its breath.
"Want to go shoot some hoops or something?" Diego asks, grabbing his basketball from the side yard.
He gives it a light dribble before tossing it in my direction.
I catch it with a low whistle, then bounce it once against the pavement.
"Hell yeah, man. I'm down." I could use the distraction.
We cut around the block to a rundown park where everything looks sun-bleached and tired. The playground paint is chipped down to the metal in places, and the plastic slides have faded under years of Miami heat, their bright colors worn down to a nostalgic blur. On the other side of the worn-down field is asmall cement court with a single basketball hoop. The chain net hangs broken on two hinges, but it still works if you're willing to pretend it does.
Diego dribbles once, shoots, and misses.
A loud whistle echoes from behind us.
We turn to see two guys about our age, maybe a little older, crossing the field from the opposite side. "Hey, man, can we play?" one of them asks, chin tipped up like he's trying to look tougher than he is. There's something almost intimidating about the way he carries himself. He points to his friend. "I'm Ty. This is Michael."
"DJ," Diego says. "This is Raul." He bounces the basketball over to Ty.
"Around the World?" Ty asks, already shooting toward the basket.
"Hell yeah," Diego says.
CHAPTER 5
RAUL
…present day
"Mail!" a guard barks from the walkway.
The facility is still half-stuck in the transition to electronic mail, so everything gets delayed. Most of the letters are three or four days behind by the time they make it to us. The guard stops at our block and glances down the line. "Alvarez."
