Going Home

Dawn 9000 BP - 2000 BP = 7000 BP

Dawn stepped out of the elevator and into Berwyn like she’d never left. Not that she’d spent most of her adult life here, exactly—she’d slept here, but her job had been in Chicago for the last few years, and so had been her friendships, her social life. But the block itself—the patched sidewalks, the tangle of salt-crusted sedans jostling curbside for space, the way the January sun hovered, white and sourceless, over the row of brick two-flats—felt more like home than anywhere in the world. Even the air here had a flavor: something like half diesel, half laundry steam, the rest old snow.

Andy stepped out behind her and took a second to orient. The elevator had let them off on the sidewalk, not inside any building, and if the neighbors noticed a pair of well-dressed young people materialize onto their street, they didn’t let it break the rhythm of their shoveling or errand-running or muttered phone calls. The world was winter-hushed, not silent, but biding its time until the real cold hit. Dawn’s breath made a cloud, and Andy’s didn’t, and neither of them thought much about it.

“You ready?” Dawn said, voice up and bright, the same way she used to greet her brothers when she was picking them up from after-school care.

Andy glanced down the block, then at Dawn, his mouth quirking a little as he took in the details: the human ears and the foot-long bunny ones (high-contrast black against her winter-white knit cap), the tiny cottontail just visible under the hem of her jacket, the J-cup breasts that managed to look somehow more appropriate here than they had in any of the Hotel’s lobbies. He smiled, genuine. “You lead. I’ll follow.”

Dawn grinned, then reached out and took his hand. “You better. I mapped out a whole tour.”

She set off at a brisk, bouncy pace, swinging Andy’s hand with a practiced exuberance that looked effortless but required, he felt, a particular kind of stamina. Andy let himself be towed, matching her stride when she picked up speed, slowing when she wanted to linger, neither of them feeling the wind even as it knifed over their ears and through the seams of their jackets. Dawn’s ears—the foot-long bunny ones—stood up to the cold without so much as a twitch. Even without the Gifts, Andy wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d grown up immune.

Their first stop was a half-block north: a three-floor brick building, the kind built before codes but after beauty was considered optional, standing square against the sky and flanked by a football field caked in ice. The end zones were marked by battered goalposts, their yellow paint gone patchy and gray, stretching like fossilized limbs against the January sun. Dawn pointed them out with a little flourish, her voice going from performative to something more genuine.

“That’s Sebastian’s school,” she said. “He’s a linebacker. Or was.” She didn’t wait for Andy to ask, just let the facts spill out. “They say he could have gone D-III, but he stopped playing after… well. After everything.” She did not elaborate.

Andy nodded, following the line of her finger. The field was empty, but the scoreboard still bore the faded numbers of some past blowout. “Does he miss it?” he asked.

Dawn’s breath made a cloud, and her lips went dry around the answer. “Not really. I think he was relieved. Football was Dad’s thing, not his. Now he’s working weekends at Mariano’s to save for a car he can’t afford to insure.” She snorted, half-admiring. “He’ll probably just spend it all on a PS5.”

They passed the edge of the schoolyard, the chain-link fence dusted with a membrane of lacy snow. A sign hung loose at one end—NO TRESPASSING, VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED—its threat neutralized by the cartoon wildcat mascot smirking from the corner. Dawn thumbed the sign as they walked by, giving it a little shake.

“Used to sneak in here at night,” she said. “Me, Luis, sometimes Seb if he wasn’t grounded. We’d dare each other to run the field, then piss ourselves when the security lights kicked on.” She grinned, not at the memory, but at Andy’s face: startled, like he’d never met a girl who could out-mischief him and Laura. Maybe he hadn’t.

Andy played it off. “And you never got caught?”

Her eyes did a quick hop to the left. “Got caught by the custodian once. He just wanted a cigarette.” Then, softer: “He passed away last year. Nobody told us.”

The mood threatened to crater, but Dawn didn’t let it. She hopped the curb, tugging Andy along, and pointed to a squat building two blocks over. A fire station, its bay doors rolled open in spite of the freeze, a heavy red truck parked nose-out like a promise.

“That’s Luis’s workplace,” she said. “He is off by three.” She squeezed Andy’s hand, this time a little tighter, and kept walking.

They cut through an alley, the kind with trash bins lined up like dominoes, and not a single basketball hoop survived unbroken. The pavement was glazed with a thin, crystalline ice, so they walked single-file, Dawn ahead, Andy watching to make sure she didn’t biff it on the hidden slicks. She didn’t. Little flecks of snow clung to her boots and the hem of her jeans.

The alley popped them onto a commercial stretch, a block anchored by a corner store with a front window dense as a scrapbook: neon lotto numbers, scrawled sandwich specials, a weathered White Sox pennant, and a sun-faded poster for a cell provider that may not have existed for years. Dawn stopped and pointed through the window, where a man in a hairnet was slicing ham with the kind of intensity that suggested he was not allowed to stop.

“Dad’s favorite bodega and coffee spot,” she said. “Been coming here since before I was born. Every morning, 6:05 sharp. Owner’s name is Hector, and so is his son’s. They probably know more about me than anyone else outside my family.”

Andy peered in, the light from inside casting a warm glow on his face. The interior hadn’t changed since the Reagan years: a counter of particleboard with the finish worn away to bare wood, linoleum patched so many times it looked like a quilt, and a refrigerator humming at a pitch only the young and the dying could hear. Behind the counter, a pair of men—maybe Hector and Hector Jr.—argued quietly over something in Spanish while the ham-slicer man ignored them both. The scene radiated the kind of comfort only earned by repetition.

Dawn watched Andy’s face, looking for signs of amusement or judgment. When she didn’t find it, she seemed satisfied. “You want to go in?” she asked, tone neutral.

Andy looked at her, then shrugged. “If you do.”

She shook her head. “Too early. Dad would know somehow, before we even got there.” She hesitated, then led him onward. The walk slowed for a few paces—a kind of silent negotiation about what came next—then found a rhythm again as they turned off the avenue.

They passed a block of three-flats, where the stoops were dusted with salt and the Christmas lights had started to come down, leaving behind little plastic anchors in the mortar. Dawn pointed at one with a particularly aggressive set of lawn inflatables: a decapitated reindeer, a snowman slouched against the steps like he’d just lost a barfight, and a Santa whose beard had been replaced with a duct-tape mustache.

“My first job,” Dawn said. “I walked dogs up and down this street so I could buy a Nintendo DS. Got bit twice. Never told my dad.”

Andy grinned. “Did you get the DS?”

“Hacked it, too,” she said, with pride. “Used it to play Pokémon during study hall. Got detention for ‘contraband electronics,’ which is how I learned to jailbreak a phone.” She glanced at Andy. “Did you know you could do that?”

He deadpanned, “I have heard rumors.”

Dawn rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t fade. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said, then lapsed into a companionable silence as they crossed the street—jaywalking, because of course—and onto the next block.

This one was residential, but in a way that barely tried to hide its proximity to the city. The houses were two-story, compact, with postage-stamp lawns and chain-link fences that looked more decorative than defensive. Most had porches; all had at least one flag—American, Cubs, or some deterred cousin of “Don’t Tread on Me”—and each bore a unique variation of “NO SOLICITORS” in the window. Dawn navigated the sidewalk like it was muscle memory.

A few houses down, she slowed to a stop at a tan bungalow with a battered basketball hoop over the garage. The backboard was split, the rim bent earthward. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at it.

“That was my hoop,” she said, finally. “Dad said if I could hit ten free throws in a row, he’d take me to a Bulls game.” She brushed a gloved hand over her cheek, pretending to scratch an itch. “I only ever got to eight.”

“Seems unfair,” Andy said. “You could do it now.”

Dawn huffed a laugh. “Now he’d just say I was too old. Or that the Bulls suck.”

“Hey!” Andy pretended to be offended. “They certainly don’t!”

Dawn laughed.

They went two blocks in silence, Andy letting Dawn set the pace now as if the world were a treadmill with her finger on the speed dial. She’d let go of his hand at some point, and he could not recall exactly when—maybe when the sidewalk dipped under that low tangle of phone lines; maybe when the air got so still, the only motion was the single snowflake that landed on the tip of her ear and did not melt. He reconsidered reaching for her, but Dawn’s stride had lost its bounce, gone almost ghostlike. He knew better than to break that spell.

Their next stop was a squat, L-shaped diner, wedged between a shuttered laundromat and a currency exchange with windows so grimy even the neon struggled to glow. The diner’s awning was a tired Kelly green, the middle sagged by too many years of frozen rain. “Melrose Grill” was spelled out in white plastic letters, two of which had gone missing and been replaced with an off-brand font, the O and the E looking like they’d been plucked from different alphabets entirely. Andy had been in his share of diners, and this place hit every cliché: the cigarette butt caked into the ice-melt at the entryway, the little bell over the door, the glass display case of half-stale pastries, the Formica tables that looked like they’d never not had syrup stuck to them. But it was the way Dawn stopped outside, just shy of the puddle of light from the window, that made Andy realize this was not a TV show, or a joke, or just another waystation on their tour.

She stared not at the menu taped up in the window, or the sign that said “ALL DAY BREAKFAST SPECIAL,” but at the booths beyond the glass, where a pair of elderly men in hunter orange sat hunched over the same crossword puzzle, and a waitress with a bun so tight it looked painful ran the register with one hand while texting with the other. For a moment, Andy thought maybe she’d spotted someone she knew. But Dawn’s gaze never focused; she just let it float over the length of the room, as if waiting for a ghost to appear.

“This was my mom’s favorite place,” she said after a while, and Andy heard in her voice what she’d tried so hard to edit out: the memory, held like a shard in the cheek, kept sharp for the flavor. “She used to take me for pancakes here, every Saturday. I don’t think the menu’s changed since she was my age.” Her breath made a cloud on the window, and she wiped it away with the cuff of her jacket, as if ashamed of the mark.

Andy waited, letting silence do its work. He could have said something about how he understood, about how his uncle Ralph used to drag him to Dunkin’ every week after therapy, or how the routine became the point after a while, the ritual the real anchor. But he didn’t, because this was Dawn’s story, and maybe the whole point of bringing him out here was to see if he’d even try to make it about himself. So he waited.

Dawn’s smile was a thing she built carefully, with all the scaffolding visible: first the mouth, then the cheeks, then finally the eyes, which flicked to Andy for a split second. “I haven’t been inside since she died,” she said, voice flat. “But every time I come home, I walk past it anyway. Like if I just look long enough, she’ll be at the window. You know?” This time, she let the laugh out, but it was more a clearing of the throat. “It’s dumb, but whatever.”

Andy’s hand hovered at his side, unsure whether to reach for her or just keep still. He chose stillness, and it was the right call: Dawn didn’t want comfort, just a witness.

“You want to go in?” he asked, keeping it light.

Dawn shook her head, quick and final. “Maybe next time.” She did not look at him, but her gaze softened at the sight of the two old men, who were now trying to one-up each other with stories Andy couldn’t hear but could imagine: hunting trips, ex-wives, whatever it was men like that remembered best. “Let’s keep moving,” she said, and they did.

They stood in front of the door a moment longer than the previous stops. Dawn’s free hand was pressed to her pocket, almost as if steadying herself. Andy didn’t say anything, just stood with her, and it was exactly the right thing to do.

When she was ready, Dawn started walking again, leading Andy off the main drag, down a side street where the houses got smaller, the cars older, and the mailboxes more likely to be decorated with sports team logos or hand-painted flowers. She walked slower now, and Andy matched her, neither hurrying nor dragging, just letting the weight of memory set the tempo.

They turned a corner and Dawn stopped in front of a two-story house, white paint just starting to peel on the north side, the same inflatable snowman in the yard that Andy had seen in every Midwest suburb since his own childhood. There was a beat-up Ford parked on the street, dusted in salt, and the porch light was on even though the sun was still up.

Dawn stared at the door. “That’s it,” she said, half to herself.

Andy looked at the house, then at her. “You want me to go in first?”

Dawn smiled. “No. But thanks.” She took a deep breath, then grinned at him, a little wild around the edges. “You ready to meet the world’s best little brother, and the world’s most competitive firefighter?”

Andy squeezed her hand. “Ready if you are.”

They stood together on the sidewalk for a beat, then another, both holding onto the moment before it tipped over.

---

Dawn pushed the door open with her hip, barely breaking stride as she called out, “It’s just me! Don’t shoot!” Her voice rang up the old wood staircase, bounced off the linoleum in the entry, and landed somewhere in the echoing kitchen at the back. She grinned over her shoulder at Andy, then pulled him inside.

Andy looked down at their shoes: the entryway was lined with a single mat crowded to capacity, boots and mismatched sneakers jammed together, two pairs of enormous men’s trainers dominating the lot. If there was a house rule here, it was definitely Shoes Off or Die. Dawn bent and pulled her own off, dropping them next to the others. Andy hesitated, then followed suit, feeling suddenly and acutely suburban.

He barely had time to finish before a voice called out, “That you, Dawnie?” and a tall kid in a gray hoodie and mesh shorts shuffled in, phone in one hand, a Gatorade in the other. He looked younger than Andy expected—maybe seventeen, eighteen tops—hair shorn close, still carrying the wiry energy of someone who hasn’t had to wake up before nine a.m. for more than a summer. The kid looked up, didn’t seem to notice Dawn’s ears or new breasts, saw Andy, and stopped short. “Whoa, what’s—?”

Dawn intercepted the oncoming collision with a grin and a hand raised in parry: “Sebastian, meet Andy. Andy, my little brother. Try not to scare him.”

Sebastian, caught midstride and mid-skepticism, froze at the base of the stairs. He was taller than he’d looked at first, but not yet done growing, his features stretched out by adolescence and uncertain now whether to default to bravado or skepticism. He peered at Andy, head angled with a practiced indifference, scanning for threat or weaknesses.

“You brought a guy home?” he said finally, like he needed confirmation this wasn’t some elaborate prank and maybe half-expected Dawn to double over in laughter or announce a reality show camera from behind the couch.

“First time for everything,” Dawn said, grinning wider. She leaned into Andy, an arm grazing his in a way that was equal parts demonstration and defiance.

Andy smiled, letting the question hang. Sebastian seemed to weigh Andy for a moment longer, then made a face that cycled with rapid-fire speed through surprise, suspicion, and something like the curiosity of a cat who’d found a new predator in its territory. “You look old,” Sebastian finally declared, with the tactless candor of the truly young. “Not, like, old old, just—” He gestured at Andy’s face, clearly at a loss for the exact word.

“Grown-up?” Andy offered, deadpan.

Sebastian’s shoulders twitched with a snort. He looked at his sister, who only raised her eyebrows as though daring him to continue. “Is this your—?” He didn’t finish, but his eyebrows did an entire silent conversation.

“My boyfriend, yes,” Dawn said, skipping over any qualifiers. “Now try not to roast him in the first five minutes.”

Sebastian looked like he was about to object, then shrugged, instantly bored with resistance. “Okay. Can I have his coffee?”

“No,” Andy said, faster than intended, and Dawn burst out laughing, the sound echoing up the staircase.

Sebastian grinned and, with the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything in his own home, hollered up the stairs at full volume, “LUIS! DAWN’S HOME! And she brought a boyfriend!” The shout bounced off every hard surface in the house, a perfect sonic map of the floorplan. Somewhere above, a door slammed open, and then a much heavier set of footsteps began to thunder down the stairs.

Luis appeared, taking the last three steps in a single stride with the kinetic energy of an avalanche. He was older than Sebastian by several years, maybe mid-twenties, broad-shouldered and brick-solid, the kind of build that came from real labor and not just gym time. His jaw suggested he could have been handsome if he’d ever smiled, but he wore a scowl like a uniform. The faded CFD T-shirt and sweatpants, plus the damp hair, suggested firehouse or station life. He sized up Andy, then Dawn, then back to Andy, and his frown deepened, not quite hostile but thoroughly unconvinced.

Dawn waved, all innocence. “Hey, Luis.”

Luis ignored her, fixing on Andy with the look of a man who’d spent years in charge of dangerous things and wasn’t about to cede control in his own house. “Are you gonna introduce us, or do we have to arm-wrestle for it?”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “This is Andy. Andy, my brother Luis. Try not to let him set you on fire.”

Luis didn’t break eye contact. He stuck out a hand, which Andy accepted without flinching. The handshake was textbook: a slow escalation of grip, both waiting for the other to yield. Andy matched the pressure, adding just enough resistance to suggest confidence but not challenge. A microsecond passed—an entire negotiation compressed to the knuckles—before Luis let go.

“Nice to meet you,” Andy said, keeping his tone neutral.

Luis nodded once, as if making a note for later. “Yeah, sure. When were you planning to tell us you had a boyfriend, Dawnie? Or were you just gonna keep bringing strange men home until we stopped asking?”

Dawn’s laugh came easily, but Andy caught the faintest edge in her voice, the wobble of an old resentment. “It’s new. Like, really new. I didn’t know how to say it without making it weird.”

Sebastian, clearly enjoying the sibling drama, cut in: “The last message you sent us was about working a triple at The Harrington. Not about a boyfriend. Or, like, any guy at all.”

Dawn’s expression flickered—blank, then rehearsed, then back to a soft smirk. “It’s been a busy week,” she said. “Sorry for not updating the group chat with my entire romantic history.”

Luis crossed his arms, which flexed the sleeves of his T-shirt. The move was so practiced it seemed like choreography. “You driving her home, or is she staying with you now?”

Andy caught the cadence: a cross-examination, not a casual question. He answered before he could overthink it. “She asked me to come visit. I figured I should meet the family if I was going to keep seeing her.” He kept the delivery light, but let the core of it land.

Sebastian, unwilling to be left out, pointed at Dawn. “How do we know you’re not, like, a serial killer? You met on an app?” He said it with mock horror, but Andy could see the question was at least half real.

“Through work,” Dawn supplied. The words came with the speed and ease of a lie she’d already fielded several times. “Andy’s in tech.”

Luis’s eyes narrowed, calibrating for threat. “Is this a fling thing? Or are you serious?” He kept his gaze on Andy, then flicked back to Dawn. The question did not feel hypothetical.

Dawn’s face shifted—she put all the serious she had into it. “He’s not a fling. It’s very serious. I mean, if you want to check his references, go for it.”

Luis’s eyes lingered, then pegged Andy again. “What’s your deal, then? You seem like you travel a lot. You got time for someone like her?”

Andy didn’t blink. “I make time. For her.” He said it flat, decisive, as if reading it off a script he’d had in his pocket all along.

Sebastian whistled, but Dawn reached out and elbowed him. He subsided, wrinkling his nose in amusement.

Luis, undeterred, had one more question, like a lawyer at the end of cross: “What happens if you get bored, though? Or if something better comes up?”

Andy matched his stare. “That’s not a risk you need to plan for.”

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze: the three siblings triangulated around Andy, each performing their own calculus. Dawn’s eyes glimmered with gratitude and something else—relief, maybe, or pride. Sebastian, arms folded, ran his eyes from Andy to his sister and back, weighing sincerity against sarcasm. And Luis, who looked like he’d spent a lifetime filling up space so nothing could ever surprise him, seemed genuinely at a loss for what to say. Finally, he grunted, a tiny nod of something like respect, and uncrossed his arms.

“Okay,” Luis said. “Come in, already. Door’s open and it’s freezing out there.”

It was only then that Andy realized he’d been standing just inside the entry, half-dressed, half-in, half-out, like a salesman awaiting judgment. He stepped forward, and the house opened up in a patchwork of warmth and smell—the kitchen at the back, all onions and garlic and something sweet baking; the living room to the right, with a TV blaring muted sports highlights and a sagging sofa covered in a red-and-black plaid throw. The floors were clean but didn’t gleam, the clutter was lived-in, and every horizontal surface bore evidence of real, unedited family.

Sebastian’s whole posture changed; the tension was gone and suddenly he was just a kid again. He grinned and waved Andy in. “Hey, do you like the Bears? I can show you the highlight from that game last weekend.” His phone was already out, thumb working furiously.

Andy laughed. “Sure. You’ll have to go over the stats, though.”

Sebastian beamed. “Easy. I got you.”

They moved toward the living room, Sebastian leading the way. Dawn hung back a beat, then slipped her hand into Andy’s, her shoulders dropping. “Not so bad, right?” she whispered.

“Like falling off a log,” Andy said, and squeezed her hand.

They followed her brothers down the hall, the weight of the gauntlet already lifting, and for the first time since arriving, Dawn looked like she actually believed it was going to be okay.

---

The kitchen was a time capsule: same linoleum, same dented Formica table, same mosaic of magnets and school photos on the fridge, curling at the corners from years of moisture and heat. The only thing new was the presence of Dawn’s father, standing at the counter in sweatpants and a t-shirt, pouring the last inch of coffee from a to-go cup into a chipped mug. He turned at the sound of the family parade and smiled, soft and a little apologetic, at the sight of Andy behind his daughter.

“Didn’t know we were having company,” he said, voice low and dry as always. “You want some coffee?”

Andy shook his head, and the man set the mug down, wiped his hands on a paper towel, and crossed the kitchen in three measured steps. He extended his hand, not the crushing grip of his sons but something that said “no hard feelings, just a job to do.” Andy shook it and felt the years of work in the man’s palm.

“Mr. Moreno,” he said.

“Call me Alejandro,” the man said, lifting his mug as if it were a trophy. His voice carried the warmth of someone who’d once laughed freely, now content to let coffee do the heavy lifting. “So… where did you fly in from?”

Before Andy could answer, Dawn chimed in, cheeks flushing. “He’s originally from Warrenville, though he’s been living in New York for the past few years.” She bit her lip at her own eagerness, then shrugged as if to say, That’s about all I know.

Alejandro leaned forward, studying both of them. “Warrenville’s a nice slice of the Midwest—quiet streets, good people. Not exactly Miami Beach.” He tapped the counter with a knuckle. “How was the flight? Any turbulence?”

Andy ran a hand through his hair. “Surprisingly smooth. Weather cooperated.”

He nodded as though that answered every question he’d held in his mind. “Good. You have family nearby?”

After a moment’s pause, Andy replied, “My parents are still in Warrenville. I manage to see them a few times a year.”

Alejandro let that sink in, hands wrapped around his mug as if bracing himself. “Family’s everything, even when distance gets in the way.” His gaze drifted to Dawn, a silent question dancing in his eyes.

Dawn met his stare without faltering. “I’m happy, Dad,” she said softly, cutting off anything he might’ve added. “Really.”

He studied her face as though cataloguing every change since she’d grown up. Then he set the mug down, leaned on the counter edge, and spoke in a low tone. “After your mother died, I… wasn’t much use. I kept busy—but you were the one who held this place together.” He didn’t meet her eyes; he stared at a ring stain on the Formica, as if its faded circle carried secrets.

Dawn crossed the short distance and slipped her arms around him. Her voice was calm. “You did what you could, Dad.”

He snorted softly—part chuckle, part choke—and finally looked up, red-rimmed eyes belying his tough façade. “I did nothing. You did everything.” He paused, swallowing. “I’m glad someone’s looking out for you now.”

He tried a small smile, but it trembled on his lips. “Finally,” he said, the word breaking in half.

They lingered in that embrace until Luis’s voice floated in from the living room. “Kick-off’s in two minutes, Pop. We saved you a spot.”

Alejandro drew a deep breath, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, and straightened. “Tell your brother I won’t be watching today,” he said, voice firm. “I’ve got an early appointment to go over the house plans with the contractor. Can’t let that slide.”

He picked up his mug again and turned toward Dawn, the hint of a genuine smile returning. “Go on, mija. Have a good day.”

The living room had been rearranged around the television with the quiet authority of long habit: Luis in the armchair, shoes off, feet on the coffee table; Sebastian cross-legged on the floor with his phone balanced on one knee. The good seat, it turned out, was the left end of the sofa, which Luis had apparently been saving for Dawn since childhood. She dropped into it without thinking, and Andy took what was left—the middle cushion, slightly sunken, angled toward the screen.

Sebastian talked through the first quarter like a man being paid by the word. Andy followed maybe half of it. At some point Luis said, “You watch football?” and Andy said, “Not really,” and Luis said, “Okay,” and that was the end of that, but the silence that followed was easier than the one before it.

By the second quarter, Dawn had pulled her feet up and was leaning into Andy’s arm. Sebastian fell asleep before halftime. Luis watched the screen, and Andy watched the room—the photos on the wall, the plaid throw, the muted trophy of a family that had held together by sheer stubbornness—and felt, unexpectedly, at home.

By halftime, Sebastian had fallen asleep sitting up, and Luis had gotten up twice to refill his water without offering anyone else any, which Dawn told Andy later was just how he showed he was comfortable. When they finally stood to leave, Luis walked them to the door and told Andy, flat and without ceremony, that the Bears were better with him watching. Andy said he’d keep that in mind. Luis grunted, and that was that.

Dawn kissed his cheek. He let her.

---

It was colder after sunset, and the block had settled into that peculiar silence that only happened in neighborhoods built for families. Dawn and Andy walked out onto the sidewalk, her gloved hand swinging free at her side, the other tucked into his. They walked a full block before Dawn stopped, turned to Andy, and said, “There’s something else I want to do before we go.”

Andy, reading her with a kind of practiced empathy, didn’t try to guess. He just said, “Anything.”

Dawn looked at him, then away, watching her breath float off in the blue dark. “Claire told me about her Dad. Marissa mentioned watching her Mom’s concert. So… I wanted to see my abuela,” she said. “Just one more time. Like… a month before she got really sick. There was a day when no one came to visit, and I remember she sounded lonely on the phone, and I never—” She broke off, blinking fast. “I never got to fix that.”

Andy’s grip tightened on her hand. “You don’t have to explain. I’d want that too.”

Dawn nodded, and her voice was steadier. “I want to take you. I want her to meet you.” She let out a quick, nervous laugh. “Not that she’d be impressed, but… it would mean something. Even if it’s not real. Even if it’s just for me.”

Andy nodded, and didn’t let go. “What do I need to know? Is there a script?”

Dawn sniffed, wiped her nose, and grinned. “Just let me do the talking. She’ll grill you for details, but she’s a soft touch. I’ll say you’re going away for a work thing, so she won’t get her hopes up about seeing you again.”

Andy smiled, but there was a seriousness to it. “Will that make it easier?”

Dawn shrugged. “For me. For her, too, maybe.” She hesitated, then said, “If I can have anything today, I want this.”

Andy squeezed her hand again. “Then let’s go.”

She looked up at the building beside them—a generic red-brick three-flat, just like every other on the block—but there, to the left of the stoop, was a door that hadn’t been there before. It was green, with a brass knob worn to the base metal, and a strip of pink masking tape stuck just above the peephole. Dawn exhaled, then opened the door.

It didn’t lead to the vestibule, or the hall, or the tiny foyer; it opened straight into her abuela’s kitchen, as she remembered it: banana leaves on the counter, a cloud of steam from a boiling pot, the smell of onion and garlic and whatever miracle she was making for dinner. The TV in the living room played a telenovela at an impossible volume, and the linoleum was still so clean you could see your reflection.

Dawn looked back at Andy, just once, her eyes huge and full of hope. He nodded, and followed her inside.

---

Abuela was exactly as Dawn remembered from her best days: tiny, fierce, a wisp of a woman in a faded housedress, gray hair corralled into a severe bun, face lined but bright with life. She had a wooden spoon in one hand and was humming to herself, presiding over the kitchen like a general organizing a siege. She looked up at the sound of the door and her whole face changed: shock, then delight, then a quick snap to brisk command as she waved Dawn in.

“¡Mira la que llegó!” she called, and when Dawn crossed to her she was folded instantly into a hug so tight it was almost a wrestling hold. Abuela kissed the top of her head and then her cheek, and held on, murmuring a string of words that mixed Spanish and English, half blessing, half affectionate scolding.

“Abuela,” Dawn said, her voice muffled against the old woman’s shoulder, “I missed you.”

She said it lightly, the way you’d say it after a long week, and held on a half-second longer than that implied. Her fingers found the familiar fabric of her grandmother’s housedress—the soft, faded cotton she could have described from memory—and pressed once, gently, before letting go. She pulled back and blinked, and whatever had been rising in her face she pushed somewhere behind a smile.

Abuela laughed. “Claro que sí, you always miss me when you’re hungry, mija!” She released Dawn, looked her up and down with the practiced eye of someone who had fed people through harder things than hunger, and then noticed Andy standing awkwardly at the threshold.

“And who is this handsome hombre?” she demanded, eyes sharp and playful.

Dawn straightened, smoothing her dress. “Abuela, this is my boyfriend, Andy.” She said the word carefully, as if unwrapping something precious.

Abuela’s eyebrows went up. “Boyfriend! Mija, you didn’t tell me nada!” She stepped around Dawn and inspected Andy, top to bottom, arms folded. “Too skinny,” she declared. “But you have nice eyes. What do you do for work?”

Andy smiled, meeting her eyes. “I’m in tech. Software, mostly.”

Abuela nodded, then cut her gaze to Dawn. “Can he cook, mija? Or does he only eat pizza like your cousins?”

Dawn grinned, but Andy answered for himself: “I can cook. But I’m nowhere as good as Dawn.”

Abuela barked a laugh, then shook her head in disbelief. “Ay Dios. Finally, a good man. Well, today you are eating real food.” She planted herself at the stove and said, “We are making pasteles. You know what that is?”

Andy nodded. “Dawn told me it’s your specialty.”

The old woman puffed up with pride. “It is not a specialty, it is a tradition. You do not make pasteles for yourself. Only for family.” She pointed the wooden spoon at Andy, then at Dawn. “You help me, mija. He can watch.”

Dawn grinned, her eyes wet, and went to the counter without being told, reaching automatically for a grater and a bunch of green bananas. She was a head taller than her grandmother, but instantly smaller, posture softening, slipping into the rhythm of the old kitchen. The two of them moved with an ease that Andy found both beautiful and intimidating—everything had its place, every action its purpose.

Abuela talked as she worked, mostly to Andy, sometimes to Dawn in rapid-fire Spanish, but never missing a beat. She grated, mixed, seasoned, spooned, all while keeping a running monologue of family history and kitchen wisdom. Andy learned more about Dawn in fifteen minutes of abuela’s narration than he had in a month of conversations.

“Did you know,” Abuela said, peeling a plantain with startling speed, “that Dawn was the only one who would help me with the pasteles? Her cousins were all too busy with girls. But not this one.” She clucked her tongue with satisfaction. “Always working. Never complaining.”

Dawn laughed. “I complained plenty. You just ignored me.”

Abuela grinned, pleased. “Of course. That is my job.”

She switched to Spanish, scolding Dawn for cutting the banana too thick, then softening with a quick, proud pat to her arm. She asked Andy about his parents, about his schooling, about his intentions with her granddaughter. She did it with humor, but Andy understood that every answer mattered, and he tried not to waste a word.

Finally, when the masa was done, Abuela shooed Andy to the kitchen table with a glass of tamarindo. “You want to help? Then you wait, and you eat. Let us do the hard work.” She rolled her sleeves up and nodded at Dawn to bring the tray.

Andy sat, watching, feeling more a part of the moment than he’d expected. He remembered his own grandmother’s kitchen, years gone now, and the sense of being allowed in to something private, something precious.

The whole apartment was full of the smell of garlic and achiote, and the sound of family: the telenovela in the background, the thump and scrape of bowls, Dawn’s quiet laughter, Abuela’s sharp corrections and occasional bursts of song. It was all so vivid, so impossibly right, that Andy understood Dawn’s longing, the desire to share this one more time.

He caught Dawn’s eye, and she smiled, a little shy, a little proud, a little sad that this wasn’t going to last, but above all, happy she could have this time with her Abuela, even if only once more. She looked more herself than he’d ever seen.

The kitchen was hot, full of steam and a low, steady clatter from abuela’s relentless spoon. Dawn and her grandmother worked together at the counter, elbow to elbow, the older woman’s hands teaching and correcting even as they moved. Andy watched from the table, a glass of tamarindo sweating in front of him, feeling like a guest at a ritual more than a meal.

Abuela kept up a running interrogation, delivered in the casual, sharp tone of someone who expected honest answers and nothing less. “So, how did you two meet, mija?” she asked, eyes locked on Dawn.

Dawn gave a version of the story that was so close to true it barely hurt: “He was a guest at the hotel. I helped him out, and we kept in touch.” She left out the months of loneliness, the strange orbit of their courtship, the literal and figurative magic that had made today possible.

Abuela’s gaze was skeptical, but not unkind. “He must have liked you very much to come all this way.”

Andy said, “I did. I do.”

Abuela considered this, then returned to her work, hands moving fast. “And you, mija? You like him?”

Dawn nodded, and the answer was immediate. “I do.”

Abuela’s hands went still, just for a moment. She looked at her granddaughter, really looked, and said, “You are happy?”

Dawn started to answer, but her voice snagged on the first syllable. She caught herself, smiled, and said, “Yeah. I really am.”

Abuela watched her for a long second, then nodded. “Bueno.” But she kept watching, as if waiting for a crack to appear.

They finished the batch, Dawn copying her grandmother’s folds and knots exactly. Abuela set the pasteles to boil, and told Andy it would only be a few minutes more. She sat at the table, folding her hands and looking at Andy with a scrutiny that bordered on affection.

“Do you want children?” she asked, blunt as always.

Andy blinked, caught off guard, but managed, “I do, yes.”

Abuela grunted, then turned to Dawn. “And you, mija?”

Dawn smiled, then glanced at Andy. “Yeah. I think I would.”

Abuela nodded, satisfied, then switched to a story about a Christmas years ago, when the pasteles had turned out all wrong—too salty, or too spicy, or something—and the entire family had eaten them anyway, pretending they were perfect. “That is what family does,” she concluded. “We eat the bad pasteles and we say thank you. Then we try again next year.”

The table laughed, even Andy, and the tension that had hovered all afternoon finally dissipated. Dawn’s shoulders, which had been taut since they walked through the door, relaxed, and she looked at her grandmother with a kind of raw gratitude that made Andy’s own eyes sting.

When the food was done, abuela served it at the table, watching Andy’s face as he took the first bite. He did not try to hide his delight, and abuela beamed with pride.

“This recipe,” she said, tapping the table for emphasis, “it is Dawn’s now. She will teach her children. And you will eat what she makes, whether it is good or not.” She winked at Andy, who laughed and promised he would.

Dawn’s smile trembled a little, but she covered it with another bite.

They ate, talked, told stories, and for a while it was just a family in a kitchen, the air thick with the smell of garlic and the sound of love being spoken in a language older than words.

When the plates were empty, Dawn stood and said, “We have to go, abuela. It’s getting late.”

Abuela’s face fell a little, but she caught herself. “Of course. You have your life.” She hugged Andy first, fiercely, patting his arm with surprising strength. “You take care of her, okay? She works too hard.”

Andy promised he would. He meant it.

Abuela turned to Dawn, opening her arms, and Dawn stepped into them without hesitation. The hug pulled tight. Dawn pressed her nose into the curve of her grandmother’s neck and stayed there, cataloguing without meaning to: the scratch of her collar, the faint powder smell, the small strong hands moving in slow circles on her back the way they had when she was sick as a child and couldn’t sleep. She felt the rise and fall of her breathing. She felt how slight she had become.

“Te quiero,” Dawn said. It came out barely above a murmur. “Thank you. For today. For all of it.”

“Ay.” Abuela pulled back just enough to cup Dawn’s face in both hands, the way she had always done, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. She looked at her for a long moment, the way she had looked at her in the kitchen—searching for the crack—and this time seemed to find nothing wrong. “You turned out good,” she said, with finality, as though settling a question she had been asking for years. She planted a kiss on Dawn's forehead, like a benediction. “Now go.”

Dawn nodded. She didn’t trust her voice.

She looked back from the doorway. Her grandmother stood under the kitchen light with one hand lifted, the telenovela still murmuring behind her, the smell of achiote still hanging in the warm air. It was exactly as it had always been. Dawn held it for one full second, then let the door fall shut.

Outside, the cold was immediate. She exhaled, and her breath disappeared into the dark.

They walked, hand in hand, down the sidewalk. The air was sharp and clean, the stars faint over the city. Dawn leaned into Andy, her head on his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was holding the world together. She just let herself be held, and it was enough.