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I need music.”
    â€œYou play an instrument?”
    â€œYeah. How’d you guess?”
    â€œI can just tell.”
    â€œGuitar and synthesizer. But I don’t know if I’ll ever play again. I can’t feel these fingers,” he said, lifting his right hand.
    â€œMaybe we’ll be able to jam together sometime.”
    At this point, as Gabriel’s nurse returned, both boys noticed her slim, athletic legs, which were barely veiled by a skirt that modestly covered her knees, and each suddenly got a hard-on. They realized that they had something else in common: a taste for women whose long legs were encased in uniforms.
    â€œSee you around,” he said as he rolled away.
    â€œI’ll be here,” Joaquin said, thinking that neither of them had even asked about the other’s injuries, or mentioned his parents.
    Â 
    Joaquin had been dreading an encounter with the van’s survivor, and he was surprised by what had just happened. He wasn’t able to truly comprehend his parents’ deaths until much later on; the famous stages of pain—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—were all jumbled together in his confused mind. In his darkest hours, he’d hated the driver of the other car and told himself he’d seek revenge against its survivor.He imagined cutting the bastard’s head off with a machete, and feeding it to the stray dogs of Tijuana.
    But when he saw the focus of his hatred that first time, his anger melted away. He had no desire for revenge. He just saw another sad, wounded boy. A kindred soul. He looked forward to speaking to him again and even, perhaps someday, playing music together. Something good had to come out of this horrible catastrophe.
    He sought the good on those dark and painful days. Days he spent silently crying in his room, avoiding the looks of compassion and pity in his roommates’ eyes. And there were the whispers: “He lost both of his parents.” “He’ll never walk again.” “They’re sending him to an orphanage.” Joaquin pretended not to hear, wishing for his music, something, anything to shut out their voices. But his prized Walkman, which he’d had for years, was lost, pulverized on the highway. So he lay there with only the TV for distraction, stoically bearing the soap operas, talk shows, and entertainment programs his roommates watched.
    The days passed and he slowly healed.

chapter 11

HELICOPTER WISHES
    â€œI hate hospitals,” Joaquin said, tossing his suitcase on the bed.
    â€œYou mean hotels.”
    â€œWhy? What did I say?”
    â€œYou said ‘hospitals.’”
    â€œJeez,” Joaquin said, shaking his head.
    Alondra walked over to him, and rubbed his shoulders and the back of his neck.
    â€œYou’ve been in a mood since we landed. Is there anything you want to talk about?”
    Joaquin pulled away, unzipped his suitcase, took out a manila folder, and leafed through the papers it contained. He couldn’t find the paper he needed, and tossed the folder across the room in disgust.
    He walked over to the window and drew back the curtains. The Dallas skyline spread out before him, glittering in the night sky. Whenever he thought of America, this was the image that sprang to mind, gleaming skyscrapers against a night sky. But looking at them now, he felt removed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be in America. Wasn’t sure he could tolerate the shimmering newness of Dallas.
    He’d expected this to be a sort of homecoming. The prodigal son returns to show he “made good” in the great wide world. But he didn’t feel like a prodigal son. Not in the slightest. He felt like a child: a sad, lonely child crying in the night for his parents.
    And Alondra wasn’t helping. She thought he needed to share his feelings about Gabriel and those painful and glorious days so long ago. But talking wouldn’t ease his feelings.