I looked for Carmina, whose real name I didn’t know, all over Mexico City. I couldn’t convince myself that she’d really left. I thought she might be in danger, and I wanted to help her like she’d helped me. I found other Carminas but not her. I hired other women, but I drove to Tlalpan at least one Monday a month to see if Carmina was back. I was tempted to pray for her, but God is a scumbag; he wouldn’t answer any prayers of mine. I wished instead, like one wishes on a birthday candle or a star. I wished Carmina was home and someone bathed her like she had bathed me, waiting for her with an
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