When no one answers her knock at the trailer, Antonia heads for the barn, where she finds Mario shoveling fresh sawdust from a wheelbarrow into each stall. In the milking parlor, José is manning the machines, softly cursing at the cows.

Antonia remembers overhearing some farmers who had brought in their workers at the Open Door Clinic. She’d been called in to translate that night. Both the hospital and the clinic were seeing an increase in Spanish-speaking cases, but unlike the hospital, the clinic couldn’t afford off-site interpreting services. The farmers were talking among themselves about how they preferred women milkers to men. Antonia had dismissed them as sexist comments, until she realized their point was that the women were gentler with the animals. The cows actually give more milk. The little calves thrive.

Psst! Mario! She calls to him, startling him. Is el patrón around? He shakes his head.

Your novia called again. The coyotes are threatening her. Who are these people you hired? she asks, as if Mario should have checked references first, done his due diligence.

Ay, do?ita, ay. The young man clutches his head. What is he to do? The coyotes are insisting on the drop-off fee to Burlington even if they put la novia on a bus in Denver. He has sent those chingados all the savings he had, borrowed the rest. The paisanos all pitched in. That’s how they work it. First, I bring my novia or wife or sister or little brother with your help. Then I help you bring yours. Slowly and all together, we rebuild our lives here. A nest, a home, not just a trailer on shifting sand.

I tried to call back but no answer. Come over and we’ll try again when you’re done with the milking. Otherwise, el patrón . . . No need to complete the sentence. They both know what she means.

Sí, sí, sí, do?ita. Mario’s face is lined with worry. She has a sudden glimpse of what he will look like when he is an old man of fifty-four.

Back at her house, she lies down, hoping to go back to sleep until Mario arrives. But she is too worked up. She’s going to have to call Vivian and Franklin and cancel. No way she can attend a dinner party tonight on no sleep in her state of mind.

If her sisters are indeed taking turns, Mona will be calling today. She’ll have the latest on Izzy. Or who knows, maybe wild-card Izzy will phone in herself, wanting to know about Antonia’s plans for her birthday this weekend. They will have heard through the sister grapevine that Antonia turned down Tilly’s invitation to come celebrate it in Chicago. But Antonia is suddenly reconsidering. By leaving town, she will be released from this mess that has come to her door, dragons crawling ashore.

Since she can’t sleep, she might as well do her morning meditation lying down in bed. The Buddha would not approve. But wait, the Buddha wouldn’t care. The start-up gong on her phone meditation app sounds; in twenty minutes it will sound again, startling her in her woolgathering, her brain turning over and over the last twenty-four hours: Izzy and how to help her, the gutters filled with leaves and twigs, Mario calling Estela from her phone . . . her mind suddenly snags on that detail. Why does Mario need to come here to call Estela? Doesn’t he have his own phone? Every undocumented worker she has met has a cell phone. Their one connection to home. Why does Mario need to involve her?

As if in answer to her question, the landline rings. It’s not yet seven. Too early for one of her sisters. It’s Roger. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself or offer any of the niceties of good morning, how are you, hope I didn’t wake you. He launches right in: Does Antonia need Mario’s help today? She mentioned some window washing? If so, Roger can drop off the ladder on his way to town, pick it up later as he won’t be needing it today. No niceties, but who cares? It’s awful nice of you, Antonia thanks him.

A few minutes later, his pickup turns into her driveway then heads down to the back of the house. She hears him unloading the ladder—presumably by himself. Easier unloading than loading it. Sounds like a rule of life, she would have noted to Sam. She loved it when ordinary observations or a string of simple words suddenly opened up to reveal some profundity. You don’t say, Sam would often respond to her insights. She was never sure what to make of that expression. It was one more of those Americanisms that would sometimes ambush her, and she would feel all over again that there was some deep core in English that she couldn’t access.

When he shows up, Mario has already called around. On what phone? she confronts him, startling him. José’s and mine, do?ita. They bought it together. But they don’t have a plan. No permanent address where the bills can be sent, no credit card, no credit. They buy phone cards, save up their minutes for calling Mexico. And knowing English, la do?ita could help in making any travel arrangements.

Mario goes on to report that his paisanos have all agreed to help. To the tune of several hundred more. There is only so much they can spare. Everyone has to budget. Antonia calls the Colorado number but hands the phone over and leaves Mario to his negotiations. She is not getting in any deeper. She has decided. This weekend, for her birthday, she’ll be in Chicago.

In her bedroom, Antonia phones Vivian on her cell, too late remembering it is too early. But Vivian is already up. Really looking forward to tonight. We also invited Wendy and poor Jim Blake. Does Vivian refer to her as poor Antonia when talking to Wendy and Jim Blake?

How to wiggle out of it now? Antonia could plead illness, but then Vivian will insist on coming over. A dinner party you can leave early, but a friend at your door with a container of bean salad and a plate of brownies is harder to get rid of. She could tell Vivian the truth: I’m overwhelmed, didn’t sleep last night or the night before or the night before. No, it’s not just grief, it’s me. She read the book her therapist recommended, The Highly Sensitive Person. She found it in the college’s science library, which gave the book a certain legitimacy, not just a feel-good self-help flash in the social-science pan. The author outlined how certain organisms are highly reactive, get easily overwhelmed, require a different ecosystem to thrive. Not a pathology, a type. It was reassuring to read the book. An earlier patron had marked it up, inked notes in the margins, passages underlined, highlighted—in a library book, imagine! A highly sensitive person overreacting.

So, how are you? Vivian wants to know, her voice tinged with concern.

I’m okay, Antonia replies, a tad too quickly to be totally convincing. But Vivian doesn’t probe further. The landscape of grief is not very inviting. Visitors don’t want to linger. The best thing you can do for the people who love you is to usher them quickly through it. She does not want to become “poor Antonia.”

Thanks for asking, Antonia says, closing the subject. This would be the moment to say she won’t be coming tonight. But Antonia can’t bring herself to do it, bailing out of a dinner party she knows damn well has been assembled to support her.

She and Franklin are so looking forward to tonight, Vivian says brightly. Antonia doubts Franklin is looking forward to all of his wife’s poor friends at his table. Franklin never says much, until a remark triggers him and he is launched. The discovery of gravity waves. The inaccuracies of historical fiction. Solar eclipses and how long they will have to wait until the next one. (This one she has heard several times and she still can’t seem to remember how long.) The wines of Chile.

And here she used to worry about Sam going on and on about universal health care. At least Sam only had one bone to pick in public. But maybe diversity is better if you’re going to be a bore.

Just checking in. What time tonight and what can I bring?

Six-ish? And not a thing, just yourself.

When people say not to bring something, do you still bring wine? When they add -ish to the hour, when do they really want you at their door? She should know these things, as she and Sam often had people over. Will she be entertaining now that she is alone? She misses it, guests around the table, chili made with ground beef from Roger’s honor store, cornbread made with Sam’s blue corn.

Back in the living room, Mario is standing at the window looking down at the ladder.

He sighs in response to her questions. El coyote requires three hundred more dollars just to release Estela. Mario can cover that amount with what he has borrowed. But he also has to come up with the money for Estela’s bus ticket to Burlington.

They’re using you, Antonia fumes, shaking her head at Mario. They’ll never be satisfied.

Puede ser, Mario nods. But what choice does he have but to keep the one he loves safe? What would you do if it were you, do?ita?