14

Rita

The motel complex where the fire victims are staying isn't far from the burned husk of the apartment building. I can still smell charred wood and melted plastic in the air as I stroll toward the courtyard.

I called Eduardo an hour ago. He said he'd meet me here—he had business with some of his former tenants already. I wanted to get it over with right away, but I figured this was something better done in person, so I agreed. But now that I'm here, I wish I hadn't come at all.

It reminds me too much of what I lost. And what all these people lost too.

Kids run around on a pathetically small grassy patch. A few adults watch them. Dejected and tired-looking people. My kind of folks. I smile and wave to an older woman I recognize from the building. She waves back. Her kids fall to the ground, a girl and a boy, wrestling in the dirt. She doesn't bother telling them to stop. The slump of her shoulders, the faraway stare, these people are in shock, still mourning the loss of all their be