Diego always used to tell me that his mother died because her dreams were too big for the life she was destined. ‘It’ll kill a person,’ Diego would say, ‘wanting to be more than you are made for.’ He says it today and shrugs dispassionately, spitting his gum onto the dry grass, where it rests beside a flattened beer can. ‘I’ve been dreaming about the kid,’ I tell him, and he spits again even though there is no gum left.