Once, home on a bright spring afternoon, she and her father danced together in a beam of sunlight in the living room, fingers snapping to the tune of a jazz ditty playing over the radio. Her father was still dressed in navy coveralls from work, his hands streaked with grease, his nails rimmed with dirt, his wedding band gleaming in the light, a strand of hair falling across his forehead as he jived. Beatriz was giggling hysterically.
“You’re a miracle,” Rafael shouted, lifting her off the floor by her waist, twirling her through the air.