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“He sounds like a good dad,” she said. “Why do you doubt that you were close?”

Santiago looked back down at his drawing. The flowers looked familiar.

“You’re right—as my dad, he was great.” He shrugged, continuing his art. “But I don’t feel like I ever really knew him as a person. He never talked about himself or his past. And I never asked. At first, because I was young, and then because I thought he just wanted us to assimilate to life in the United States.”

In what was quickly becoming habit, Santiago reached up to grasp his chakana necklace, the stone warm where it had laid against his collarbones.

“Now I wonder if his hesitation to talk about his past was…something more,” he finished.

“It sounded like he didn’t want you involved with the Guardianes,” Ali ventured. “Maybe he wanted you to forge your own future?”

“By denying me my past?” Santiago shot back, prickly heat burning in his chest. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I can understand him wanting to keep me safe,” he admitted. “But the lies, the secrecy. It makes me feel like I barely knew him at all.”

Santiago turned toward the window as they drove past a cluster of small brick and adobe buildings set away from the main road. The fields were full of donkeys and cows. He knew the homes would be full of people.

It was a long shot, but he wondered if any of them were family.

“I barely knew my parents,” Ali said.

He turned to look at her but remained quiet.

“We were very poor, and they both worked,” she added. “A lot. Multiple jobs, day and night shifts. They were rarely home, except to eat and sleep for a few hours. I took care of the house and my sister. Cooked our meals and got us ready for school. That kind of thing.”

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility for a kid,” Santiago said. Ali glanced at him, and he thought he recognized the look in her eye. Like she wanted to talk about the ones she’d loved and lost. “What were they like?”

“Tired,” she said, but there was warmth in her voice. “They were always tired, but kind. They spent as much time as they could with us, even if that was just going to the grocery store or cooking a meal together.”

A memory lifted her whole face. “Once, they dragged us out of bed because a man was selling raspadillas on the corner.” She glanced at him. “You know those? Shaved ice with syrup? Anyway, it was a huge treat for us. By the time we got there, the ice was mostly melted and some ants had gotten in the syrup, but I swear, to this day it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

She shrugged. “That’s what they were like. They were good at making small moments special.”

“Can I ask what happened to them?”

He watched as Ali sucked in her lower lip, releasing it with a sigh as she answered. “Warehouse accident.” She said it quickly, as if her tongue didn’t want to linger over the memory.

“How old were you?” He risked one more.

“Not old enough,” she said with a humorless smile.

“But you survived,” Santiago said. “And I’m willing to bet you continued to look after your sister.” He was curious about her sister, too, but decided not to press his luck. It gave them something to talk about later.

Ali’s features softened, her smile traveling ever so slightly to her eyes. Her gaze found his again, and he thought they must have seen more of each other in the last five minutes than the whole day prior.

The vulnerability in her eyes made Santiago’s stomach clench. Especially as she lifted a hand off the steering wheel, the backs of her long fingers grazing his cheek, and brushed softly against the corner of his mouth. His breath caught in his throat and he instinctively leaned closer…until he saw the dusting of crumbs fall from his face and onto his jacket.

Oh. Of course.

He swiped at his mouth and chin brusquely, sending more crumbs flying.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, heat prickling the back of his neck.

“Anytime, Rios,” she answered.

“You know you can call me Santiago,” he said.

The corner of her lip quirked.

“I know…Rios,” she replied.