“It’s okay, caminá,” she says, like we say back home: caminá. The old lady is still laughing. I can hear her through the crowd. I feel terrible. ¿Are we gonna be ok? ¿Is she gonna call the cops? She knows we’re Salvadoran. Guanacos. Cerotes. Majes. Chambrosos. Chiflados. Cachimbones. There’s a pupusa on our foreheads.
