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Mitchells’ backyard, Emily threw a tennis ball to Maggie, her year-old golden retriever.
    “Can’t I let her in, Mama? She won’t make a mess.”
    “We’ve been over this, Emily. Your father let you get Maggie on the condition that she can’t be a house dog.”
    “Couldn’t she just visit the house and sleep in the backyard?”
    “No dogs in the house. That’s your father’s rule. And his father’s rule before him.”
    Adam stepped out on the porch. “Come inside, Emily.”
    “I want to play with Maggie.” She gazed at her mother, then at her father. “Does it say in the Bible that you can’t let dogs in the house?”
    “Well, no. I don’t think so . . .”
    Emily smiled broadly. “Then can she sleep in my room?”
    “No. I told you; we can’t have an indoor dog.”
    Maggie drew up close to Adam’s feet, nuzzling him. Emily scratched her under the ear while the dog emitted groans of ecstasy. There was nothing Maggie loved more than snuggling close to Emily. Victoria had earned Maggie’s affection by grooming her with a stainless steel brush. An occasional pizza-flavored toy hadn’t hurt Maggie’s feelings, either. And though he did nothing to encourage her, the golden hadn’t given up on Adam.
    Emily buried her face in the fur on Maggie’s neck.
    Adam thought this was all too much fuss over a dog. But he did enjoy his little girl’s smile and her contagious giggle.

    Javier Martinez was thirty, short and stocky, strong and boyishly charming. He was working happily at a construction site—double-checking a blueprint—when he was approached by the foreman’s assistant, a friendly giant named Mark Kost. “Hey, Javy,” Mark said, slapping him on the back. “Boss wants to see you.”
    Javier took off his white hard hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his old brown T-shirt when he entered the foreman’s office.
    The foreman sat behind a desk in a small trailer lined with wood paneling fresh from 1972.
    “Mr. Simms, you wanted to see me?”
    “Yeah, Martinez, have a seat.”
    Simms, eyes down, shuffled some papers. Finally he stopped, adjusted his glasses, and glanced up. “Look, Javier, the past two weeks you’ve done great work.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “But this project is over budget, and I have to let a few guys go.”
    “I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”
    “It has nothing to do with your performance. It’s just . . . you were one of the last guys I hired, so you gotta be the first I let go. Sorry. Don’t take it personally.”
    Javier didn’t know how else to take it. “Sir, please. I have a wife and kids. It’s very hard for me to find work.”
    “I really am sorry.” Simms handed him an envelope. “I added a few extra dollars.”
    Javier held the envelope, stunned, then slowly got up. He walked to the door, fighting the desire to plead for his job. He dreaded facing his sweet wife with the discouraging news of her husband’s unemployment . . . again.
    He walked four miles to a small, low-income house. A steel-blue Continental manufactured during the Carter administration sat in the driveway.
    Inside the house, Carmen Martinez attempted to clean while Isabel, five, and Marcos, three, chased each other through the kitchen.
    “I’m going to get you, Marcos!”
    “No, you’re not!”
    “Isabel! Marcos! Dejen de correr! Stop running and clean up your toys! I need to start lunch.”
    She turned to see Javier standing quietly in the doorway. “Javy! What are you doing home? Why aren’t you at work?”
    “They let me go.”
    “What? Why?”
    “I was the last one hired. They went over budget.”
    “Why didn’t you call me? I would have talked to them not to do this. We have two children to feed, and . . .”
    “I tried to tell that to Mr. Simms. It made no difference.”
    “Javy, we owe four hundred dollars in a week. All we have is leftover rice and beans. Marcos needs shoes.”
    “I tried to tell him,