of my life. Two weeks later, he introduced me to his father. Franco Delgado was sixty-three, a retired carpenter with sun-darkened hands and gray eyes almost identical to Marcos’s. He lived alone in a house he had built with Marcos’s mother, who had died eight years earlier. His garage smelled like cedar, motor oil, and coffee. A radio played constantly from a shelf above his workbench. Franco called me “kid” by the third week.
By the second month, he had built me shelving for my workshop. I never asked. He
There’s more to discover. Continue to the next page for the rest of this article.
