Chapter 2
Two — What the File Didn’t Say
The file didn’t say that Marcos had been working since he was fourteen.
Not illegally — his mother knew, had signed the forms, had driven Marcos to and from afternoon shifts when she could still drive. A distribution warehouse on the edge of the city, four hours on Thursday afternoons, eight hours on Saturdays. The money was to contribute, which was the word his mother used to describe the precariousness of their situation in a way that wouldn’t make Marcos feel the weight of it for what it was.
The file didn’t say that Marcos had learned to cook when his mother got sick.
Not because no one else could — there were neighbors who offered, there was the social worker who came twice a week — but because Tomás ate for Marcos. For no one else. It was something Marcos had discovered the way you discover these things when you are the older brother of a seven-year-old watching his world disappear — by observing, adjusting, finding what worked and doing it systematically until it always worked.
Mac and cheese, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Rice with chicken, Fridays. French omelette on Saturday mornings, with grated cheese, because Tomás said grated cheese was different from sliced cheese and he was right, it was.
The file said none of this.
Files rarely say the things that matter.
The file didn’t say that Tomás had stopped talking for three weeks after their mother died.
Not completely — he answered direct questions, said yes and no, said whether or not he was hungry. But conversation — the continuous flow of observations and questions and comments about the world that is the native language of an eight-year-old — had simply stopped.
Marcos had sat with him every night for those three weeks. Not saying anything special, not trying to force anything. Just sitting. Sometimes with the television on, sometimes reading aloud from the dinosaur book Tomás had received for his birthday in May and which, for reasons neither of them could articulate, remained the right book for this moment.
The triceratops, Marcos explained in a quiet voice, had three horns. The brachiosaurus was so tall it could look through the windows of a four-story building. The ankylosaurus had a tail like a club that could break a tyrannosaurus’s bones.
Tomás listened.
At the end of the third week, Tomás had said, without preamble, in the middle of the stegosaurus chapter:
— Are you going to go too?
Marcos had closed the book.
— No, — he said.
— How do you know?
Marcos had thought about this with the seriousness it deserved.
— Because I’m not going to go, — he said finally. — And I know that’s not an answer. But it’s what I have.
Tomás had considered this for a moment.
May you like
— Okay, — he said.
And he had started talking again.
