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bees! They’re coming; they’re bringing the rain.”
    “There are no bees here anymore. It’s too dry for them, you know that.”
    “No, the bees are coming! Caro-leeen-a saw one!” Serge points a chalky-yellow fingernail at me.
    “I —” I start, then realize everyone’s staring. Our number-one goal this summer: don’t do anything to upset Serge.
    “Um,” I barely whisper, “it was just a fly.”
    My lie is painful to deliver: Serge’s hope melts out of him, his mouth goes slack, and his eyes become blurry, icy-blue watercolor versions of themselves. “No bees?”
    “No,” I say. “No bees.” I wish I could dive headfirst into my bowl.
    “The Seville’s the best care center in the state,” Dad says. “It’ll be a vacation after the ranch. You can relax for once in your life.”
    “We’ll be able to see you more often,” Mom adds, ignoring the fiery look Dad gives her.
    Serge’s hand reaches out, a clammy, pasty claw. “Water, please.”
    I pass him a glass, which he drains. “Bones are so dry,” he says. “Drought dries everything to dust.”
    Dad clears his throat. “So this week, we’ve got to meet with the real estate agent.”
    “Real estate agent?” Serge repeats.
    “We decided,” Dad says carefully, “that it’s time to pass the ranch on. This way, everything at the Seville will be paid for.”
    “You were born on this land,” Serge says. “Raised on this land. Your mother —”
    “I know.” Dad’s voice cooks hotter and hotter. “But it hasn’t been properly maintained. When we sell it, somebody else can clean it up, get it up to speed with the twenty-first century. It will have a future — another family to look after it. Won’t that be great?”
    “This land belongs to my family, Raúl. To your family.
Tus raíces significan nada para ti
.” Your roots mean nothing to you, Serge says. “You’ll pass it on over my dead body!”
    “That’s what I’m trying to avoid!”
    Dad storms out of the kitchen. Seconds later the TV volume cranks up.
    Serge pushes away from the table slowly, trembling as he stands. Mom opens and closes her mouth, trying to find the right thing to say, but it doesn’t come in time, and Serge goes outside, carting his oxygen tank behind him, and parks himself on the porch.
    Alta starts texting.
    “Okay, guacamole monster. Time for a bath.” Mom plucks Lu from his high chair. “Will you girls get the dishes cleaned up? That means
you
.” She narrows her eyes at my sister.
    Alta makes a big show of putting her phone away and carrying her own dishes to the sink. “I
am
,” she says.
    “What about . . . ?” I say, pointing at Serge on the porch. “Should someone go talk to him?”
    Mom glances at him, crumpled in his wicker chair, staring across the land at nothing. “Give him time,” she finally says.
    Bzzz, bzzz
. I jerk my head around. “Bee,” I whisper. But it’s Alta’s cell phone, vibrating on the countertop.
    “Alta. Clean up first. Then phone.”
    “Fine.” My sister, queen of the monosyllable. But as soon as Mom’s out of sight, she abandons the sink and grabs her phone.
    “Hey, Mom said you have to help.” My heart thumps as I say this; I’m risking being yelled at, or pinched, or worse.
    Alta’s eyes flash danger. “I won’t tell her if you won’t.” She slips out of the kitchen, her only contribution clearing her own dishes. It’s more than she usually does, anyway.
    It’s not fair. Alta always manages to talk or walk her way out of work. If I tattle to Mom, Alta will spin an excuse, elaborate as lace, and get away with it. She always gets away with it.
    “Chiquita?”
Serge calls through the open kitchen window. “Did Inés get fed?”
    I peer at the dog’s food and water. Both full. “Yes.”
    “She’s a good dog,” he says.
    I wash dishes like a factory worker, letting the cold suds drip down my arms. I breathe, forgetting the unfairness of the evening with every exhale; the ranch is no place