It was in the middle of the rainy season with clouds amassing over the hills when DJ picked a letter from the post office in downtown. For days he was frustrated for not receiving a letter from Mexicali, and now he had one in his hands. When he got back, he crossed the room without seeing us. This was perplexing to us; we thought he would scream at us to get up and go to Don Anselmo’s corn field to pull weeds from the furrows, or go to the green fields to get alfalfa for the chickens, or go to the hills to gather wood. Any other day, it would’ve been different—he just could not stand seeing us sitting around. But not this time. He went straight to the kitchen without saying a word to us.
“Maria! We got mail from Mexicali.”
….Maria covered her mouth. By this time the clouds that had been gathering over the hills spread across the sky and covered the sun. A draft of cold wind rushed in from the front opened door. A flash illuminated the sky. Loud thunder shook the shack. Rain began to pour over the roof….