“Let’s not go through this again.” And Manuel did not argue.

That was the worst part, worse even than Veronica’s coldness: his father, a man who had built this house with his own hands, simply accepted the refusal, and did not argue, because he had clearly learned, over some long stretch of months, that arguing did no good and cost too much.

A minute later, Carmen emerged from the back door carrying two small paper plates, and walked, with her husband, toward a small storage room behind the laundry shed.

Alvin knew that room.