THEY GOT SOMETHING SMALL TO EAT FROM A VENDOR, AND they watched night fall on the levee. Then it was time to go home. They walked together away from the river through the lower Quarter. As they passed from the market and then crossed Decatur, the blocks became calmer, more residential. Something itched in the back of Luz’s mind. Responsible for each other? She felt like she had been repeating something—the thought had risen and verbalized so naturally—but once the words left her lips, she wasn’t sure where they had come from. She was a little embarrassed by the sentiment, but Jonah didn’t seem to mind, didn’t seem to think what she said had been weird at all.
It was a cool night. The street was wet, and while they walked moonlight flashed like sallow fish bellies in the black water puddled on the asphalt. Ahead, a car blipped through the intersection. All at once, Luz was aware of movement like a gathering of shadow, and she felt Jonah tense beside her. Two figures slid out from a darkened doorway and blocked their path. They wore navy hoodies. One was taller than the other, eyes wide and glaring out. They both held pistols.
The taller of the two said something quick, a demand, but Luz couldn’t latch onto the words, though she understood and pulled from her pocket five dollars, all she had, and the boy’s fingers shot forward and snatched the cash, and Jonah’s wallet was out and gone, and Luz noticed now the shorter of the two. He was holding his pistol with two shaking hands. The barrel wobbled, and Luz saw his finger on the trigger and prayed—please no, please no! The face swaddled in the hood was a child’s face, a scared little boy. “Let’s go,” said the taller of the two, and they spun, and they ran, sneakers smacking against the wet sidewalk. They turned the corner, and the sound of Jonah’s ragged breathing filled the quiet street.
“Motherfuckers,” Jonah wheezed, voice higher than usual. He took Luz’s hand in his. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” Luz said, soft. And she was. Her pulse raced, but she felt calm otherwise. Almost suspended, detached. Jonah was holding on to her, but the sensation—his cold, damp hand—didn’t seem to touch her, as if she had become a distant observer.
Muggings were a common occurrence, particularly in this part of the Quarter, where tourists might wander away from the busier corridors, and Luz found herself unsurprised by the experience. What had scared her was the little boy, his shaking hands on the gun. Nevertheless, it had been quick. A transaction. She and Jonah played their roles without hesitation.
“I shoulda done something,” Jonah said.
“They had guns,” Luz heard herself say.
“I shoulda done something.” His voice took on an edge.
“Don’t worry about it, Jonah.” Luz shivered, felt herself coming back to the earth. Adrenaline began to burn in her limbs. She tried Spanish, which Jonah didn’t understand but sometimes thought was cute: “No te preocupes, Jonás.”
“I feel like a pussy.” He let go of her hand and stalked a few steps in the direction the boys had gone.
“It was just a few dollars.”
“It’s not about the fucking money,” he snapped, turning toward her. He softened after a moment: “I’m sorry. Come on. My phone’s in the truck. We’ll call the cops.”
“No,” Luz said.
“Huh?”
“No police, Jonah.”
He cocked his head. A question formed on his lips even as he was figuring it out.
Luz spoke first: “I can’t call the police.”
“But—”
“All we need is for one of them to be an asshole,” she told him. “To ask me where I’m from because I have an accent.”
Jonah pursed his lips, lowered his eyes. Luz’s own father had been robbed twice, just so. Rodrigo once, that she knew of. Others they knew—they’d all been mugged. It hadn’t taken long for the city’s thieves to figure out that the workers made easy targets. They got paid in cash and wouldn’t go to the police, concerned that some enterprising cop might notify la migra.
The last time her father had been robbed he fumed, just like Jonah. Luz tried to reason with him—You couldn’t do anything, Papá, it’s okay—but he’d gotten angrier. What a way for a city to thank the people who had rebuilt it.
“All right,” Jonah said to Luz. “No cops.”
“I’m sorry,” Luz said.
Jonah squeezed her hand to say he understood.
When they got into the truck, Jonah sat there for a few breaths without turning the ignition. He ran his hands over the steering wheel, worn smooth by his brothers’ and his father’s hands before him. He moved quickly and punched the wheel once, hard.
Luz jumped. Jonah closed his eyes and hung his head. Luz watched and waited. He finally spoke. He sounded worn out.
“It’s not about the money,” he said. “I hate feeling helpless. I hate that I couldn’t do anything about it. The world taking what it wants. Like, Fuck you, Jonah.”
And that’s it, Luz thought. Every loss had the touch of Jonah’s greatest loss.
She watched him drive—the streetlight like water over his face, hardened with frustration—and she loved him.