“Get in the car, Gaby.

Right now.”

“I can’t, Dad.

I really can’t.” She looked around, frightened, as if someone might be watching.

“Get in the car right now,” I said, “before I get out.” Behind me the light had gone green and the drivers were leaning on their horns, and I did not move an inch, and I did not care.

When she finally pulled open the back door and climbed in, I saw my grandson, Leo, asleep against her chest, his cheeks flushed red with a low fever, while Gaby’s right hand was still clenched around those few dirty coins as though she had forgotten they were there.

I turned the air conditioning up cold to cool the two of them down, and then I asked the first of the questions that would unravel everything.