The notary documented the condition of the property. The security men changed the front lock before they left.

I washed the dish soap from Valeria’s hands with warm water. She cried when feeling came back into her fingers. Pain returns before comfort does. That’s true of hands.

It’s also true of daughters.

I found her slippers by the laundry room door. They’d been pushed behind a basket of towels. She stared at them for a long time. “He said shoes in the kitchen looked lazy,” she whispered.

I dried her hands. “Then tomorrow we buy you the loudest kitchen shoes in Mexico.”

She laughed once. It broke into tears. That was all right. Laughter and tears are neighbors after fear.