heavily on him wasn’t the job.
It was getting home and handing his bank card to his wife, Maribel.
That night, he threw his backpack next to the old couch and took out his wallet.
“Here,” he said, placing the card on the table. “But this time, give me at least 300 pesos.” Chuy’s birthday is coming up, and everyone’s going out for beers.
Maribel was sitting with a graph paper notebook, a calculator, and several folded receipts.
She didn’t even raise her voice.
“I can’t, Martín. The electricity, water,
