knowing that it contained the only thing that would protect me. Upstairs, I folded my apron, put the radio inside, and wrapped the photo in a tea towel. Miguel, the gardener, saw me leave through the side door.
“Where are you going;”
“At my daughter’s house. Julian kicked me out.”
“He can’t do that. Mr. Whitaker promised—”
Miguel stopped
abruptly, as if he had almost revealed something. I told him that Julian could do whatever he wanted now and got on the bus. Forty minutes later, I arrived at my
