His eyes light up instantly. “Seriously?”

“Yep. And it’s all yours.” Well, except for twenty dollars. That goes in my secret stash for whatever-the-heck-I-want. “We got killed today. My feet are about to fall off.” Complete and total truth.

He accepts the mass of bills in his hand gingerly, as if it were a baby bird. He looks at it for a long time. I lie next to him on the couch and hoist my feet up onto his knees. He makes room for me.

Julio smiles down at me, ignoring what I know is a pungent smell coming from my work shoes. Then he tosses the bundle of cash onto my belly. Three hundred forty dollars in ones, fives, and tens is heavy. “You can keep your earnings now, bonita.”

I sit up. “What?” A thrill runs through me. “What do you mean?” The thought of keeping the cash in my lap is mind-blowing. If I can start keeping what I earn, then that means I could save up for a car. Whoa. “What is going on?”

Julio scratches at a beard that isn’t there. I honestly don’t know if he can’t grow one or if he keeps it shaved. I’ve never seen him shave. “You have grown up, little sister. I’m very proud of you. You’ve helped me so much these past months. I’m grateful for that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Because of your help, we’ve saved enough money to bring Mama and Papi back, Carlotta. We have an appointment with El Libertador tonight. Go take a shower and change. I want you to be with me. You earned it.”

My shower is quick and unappreciated. I dress for comfort instead of style. I don’t know what to expect. My stomach is one big tangle of emotions. Relief, that I don’t have to work as much, unless I want to. Anxiety, about what El Libertador will have to say. Sadness, that this part of my life—the part where Julio and I eke out a living on our own together, united—is over. Happiness, that this part of my life—the part where Julio and I struggle to make ends meet and send money to my parents and suffer—is over. Guilt, because I still haven’t told Arden the truth about my parents, and now I’ll all of a sudden have immigrant parents who happen to be document challenged and his dad is practically the founder of People Against Undocumented Immigrants. If that were an actual thing.

Julio knocks on my bedroom door, bringing me back to the reality: This is happening despite what I feel about it. “Are you ready, Carlotta? We have to go. I’ve called a taxi for us.”

It’s out of character for my brother to waste money on things like taxis, so either we’re traveling a longer distance than we can feasibly walk, he doesn’t want to be hot and sweaty when we arrive, or we’re running that late—or all of the above. “I’m ready,” I breathe.

The taxi is old and smells of body odor and fake cherries and cheap aftershave—all of which I assume belong to the driver in some form or the other. Julio sits quietly beside me, hands folded in his lap, so I do the same, even though I feel like spazzing out.

We leave city limits, and drive and drive and drive. We keep making turns here and there away from Highway 20, until I would no longer be able to find my way back to it. Which makes me feel unsafe—something I never thought I’d feel with Julio.

The cab pulls into an old abandoned office complex, the kind with glass front windows that probably used to house things like nail salons and Chinese buffet restaurants. Grass grows in all the cracks of the parking lot.

We get out of the taxi and Julio pays the driver in cash, and asks him in Spanish to stay and wait for us. The driver complies and lights a cigarette. We make our way to suite D, which I only know is suite D because the grimy outline of the missing lettering is still present on the glass door.

There is an old wooden desk with a dim lamp set upon it and two chairs in front of it. A brawny man sits behind it, and though the lamp creates more shadow in the room than actual light, I can tell he’s wearing a mask. Of course he is. He’s El Libertador.

We sit down in the chairs and Julio folds his hands on the desk in front of him. I don’t know where he’s gotten this new hand-folding habit, but I keep mine to myself in my lap. El Libertador’s mask is creepier upon closer inspection. It’s a clown face, and it looks like it might be made of porcelain. I wonder if he picked it to be that much scarier to his victims. I say victims, because he’s practically bludgeoning us with his fees.

And I say scarier, because really, the man is terrifying. Even the black clothing he wears cannot hide the fact that he dwarfs both me and Julio put together.

“You’re late,” El Libertador says in Spanish. His voice is muffled behind the mask.

“We apologize,” Julio says submissively. “Please forgive us.”

“Who is this you’ve brought with you?”

“This is my younger sister, Carlotta. She knows the importance of the situation. She helped earn the cash for our parents.” There is a tinge of pride in his voice. I imagine it sounds pathetic to El Libertador.

“Has the cash been dropped off?”

Julio nods. “It has.”

This surprises me. Julio has already made arrangements with this man. He has already taken our savings and dropped it off somewhere. The thought makes me nauseous. And so does the clown face. I concentrate my attention on El Libertador’s massive hands. Even in the dim lighting, I notice an angry scar between his left thumb and index finger. I imagine all sorts of gruesome ways he could have gotten it.

Was he tortured? Did he get it in a fight? Did he get it while he was murdering someone? Something about the scar is evil, I decide.