The hottest Good Friday in years. The city stops its rumbling to lift itself, momentarily, above the heat. Downstairs the maid is muttering a novena in the kitchen. The family dog is bunched up like a rug at her feet. Every now and then he gives out a little snore. My sister is flipping through a magazine, waiting for her hair to dry. I woke up from the dream where I build you a soft house, because you have no eyes. Last night, my father went out on his own. He was wearing his work clothes. No one knows when he will be home.

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