An orchestra of trumpets, violins, and guitars clatter from blown speakers in a Mexican symphony that has Flaco bouncing up and down with rhythm and joy. When two of the three men begin to sing song lyrics in a language I don’t understand, I look to find Lowen’s blue eyes set on me. I elbow him playfully before resting my bare arm against his on our own laps. The slight burn of his skin soaks deep within me, melting away lingering bitterness for my parents. They become an afterthought … an indifference. “Should we take you somewhere?” Low asks as Flaco pulls the truck in front of a small blue house. A Hispanic woman and three dark-haired children wave at our arrival from the porch, illuminated by an orange doorway light. I shrug, unbuckling my seatbelt. My ears ring from the sudden silence when the engine is cut and the stereo silences a mid-trumpet solo. “I can find my way around,”
