operant conditioning

melissa loftus

“REALLY? YOU’RE GOING TO LIVE HERE?” Nora asks.

Rafael shrugs. Nora’s judgment is not a high priority. The place is cheap. Cheap enough.

“Rafa, there is a hole in the bedroom door.”

He notes the way she refuses to say his bedroom. And she’s right, there is indeed a hole in the corner of his bedroom door. Maybe someone had kicked it, or some sort of animal had chewed its way through. Rafael does not particularly care.

Nora kneels next to the door, leaning over to peer through the hole. Her curly hair pools on the dirty floor beneath her. “There’s no light in this room,” she says.

“I don’t need a light when I’m sleeping,” Rafael replies.

Nora stands up abruptly. “This isn’t good enough,” she says, and her tone is firm.

Rafael shrugs again, turning away from her so he doesn’t have to look at her face. “It’s already done.”

Nora can never stay mad for long. They apologize silently, as they always do, always have since they were kids. She buys him cleaning supplies, a comforter, and a lamp to brighten up the dirty, cramped apartment in a way Rafael never would have bothered to. In return, he ignores the comforter’s bright blue, and the little sheep that circle the rim of the lamp.

The one bright spot in the building is the laundry room. The last place Rafael lived did not have a laundry room, and it resulted in Rafael and Nora spending early mornings in a laundromat. Nora sitting on a laundry machine, her nose in a book or writing an essay for class while Rafael struggles to stay awake from a late-night fight where he’d rearranged some guy’s face for the money that will take him and Nora through the next month. Now, instead of robotically going through the motions in a fog, he can do his laundry whenever he drags himself out of bed. It doesn’t have to be a whole production, with Nora roped into yet another thing.

When Nora, during their regular Thursday lunches, makes a comment that he’d been wearing that same shirt the day before, he decides it’s time to actually try out the laundry room.

So Rafael drags the bag of all of his clothes down three flights of a staircase so narrow and creaky that sometimes Rafael feels like more than a couple people on it at once could send the entire thing crashing down. Luckily, the place doesn’t get many visitors, though the threadbare hallway carpets would have one believe otherwise. He makes his way down to the basement as gingerly as he can, because the railing comes up to about his waist, and the steps themselves are not made for people his size.

Unfortunately, he isn’t alone when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. A guy, a little younger and a lot smaller than Rafael, is bent over a dryer. Rafael ignores him and goes about his business, shuffling toward a washing machine and tossing in his clothes. Rafa-el has never had the wherewithal for sorting clothes. His mother often hadn’t had the energy for laundry, and he’d taught himself very young.

“Did you get mugged or something?”

Rafael freezes, a shirt balled in his hand. “Huh?” he says, looking at the guy, who is staring at the shirt in his hand.

“Did you get mugged? Stabbed? Who hurt you?” The guy speaks fast. He doesn’t give Rafael a chance to even answer before the next question comes up. Rafael blinks slowly, then glances down at the shirt. Oh. He’d put it on after a particularly nasty fight last week. One where he’d sustained a bloody nose and a split lip. He doesn’t remember the events fully, fights are more muscle memory than any conscious choice Rafael makes. The shirt, which is a light gray, shows the remains of this. Splattered and stained with the dark evidence that Rafael should’ve kept his hands up.

“No, I box,” Rafael says in as simple terms as possible. This guy doesn’t actually care.

The guy tilts his head to the side, eyes widening in interest. “Whoa. Like an actual fighter? That’s cool.”

Rafael doesn’t answer, busying himself by throwing the shirt into the washing machine. He did not expect that reaction. The only person he ever really bothers to talk about boxing with besides other boxers is Nora, and Nora doesn’t find it cool at all. Quite the opposite. Rafael doesn’t find it particularly cool either.

The guy doesn’t let the silence linger for very long. “You know, if you keep washing your clothes with blood like that they’re gonna get stained.”

Rafael finally turns to face him. The guy has spiky black hair, freckles on his tanned face, his hands stuffed nervously in the pockets of his sweatshirt. He’s got dark eyes and an earnest face full of genuine curiosity.

“How do you know?” Rafael asks.

The guy smiles a crooked smile. “My mom. She gets blood on her clothes sometimes. Also, I mean, come on, I was a teenager one time, weren’t you?”

Rafael doesn’t tell him that most teenagers have parents to do the laundry. That most go to college and stuff all their clothes in the laundry at once, just like him. He and Nora just started earlier than most.

Instead he says, “You do your mom’s laundry?”

“Well, yeah. She’s always busy, gotta help out.” The guy brushes the comment off. “Anyways, as soon as you bleed on a shirt, soak it in cold water. Then throw a little bleach in there, it’ll come right out. If you wash it hot, it’ll make the stain permanent.”

“Uh, that’s okay, I really don’t care,” Rafael says. That is simply the way things have been for as long as he can remember. It feels wrong to completely wash away the remnants of a fight that has ended in blood. The guy either doesn’t seem to notice his hesitation or doesn’t care.

“Here,” he says, and pulls out a blue bucket Rafael hadn’t noticed behind him, and water sloshing in it. Rafael can see a white blouse floating around in the bucket. “Throw your shirt in it, and I’ll wash it when I wash my mom’s here.” He points at the white shirt.

Rafael has never been good with conflict he can’t solve with his fists. He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. What’s one shirt?

The guy brightens. “Great! Well, I’m Yul. I live in apartment 3b. You?”

Yul doesn’t wait for Rafael’s answer, simply holding out a hand. Rafael hands the shirt over before he even realizes he gave his muscles permission to move. Yul plops it in to soak with his mom’s white shirt, giving the bucket a swirl like it’s a strange pink-ish potion. His shirt looks gray and dull next to the bright white blouse. Yul straightens up and beams at Rafael, who feels his face warm against his permission.

“Rafael. 3a,” Rafael answers.

“Ah. You’re the big guy that moved in with his girlfriend a couple weeks ago.” Yul says it like a revelation, even though Rafael is pretty sure there aren’t more than fifteen people in this building, and Yul seems like the type to know them all.

"My sister lives at her college, she just visits sometimes," Rafael corrects him, throwing a Tide pod into the laundry machine and pressing start.

He’s not really sure why it matters, but something about the way Yul overshares makes Rafael feel the need to compensate.

“Oh cool! What college does she go to? My best friend and I go to Scranton just down the street. Are you in college?”

As Yul rambles, he pushes the bucket back into its corner and follows Rafael out of the room. Yul keeps up a steady stream of questions the entire way up all three flights of stairs.

Escape within sight, Rafael backs up into his door. “I have to…” he trails off, pointing behind him.

Yul, once again, seems completely unbothered. “Okay, bye Ra-fael, see you soon!”

Rafael shuts the door to his new, tiny apartment, and wonders what happened. How soon?

It is, in fact, very soon. Around two hours later, Rafael opens his door to Yul standing there beaming, holding up a completely clean and unstained gray t-shirt. It’s a much lighter gray than it was before. “There you go, good as new!”

Rafael reaches for the shirt, taking it gingerly. It does look good as new, almost as perfect as when he’d bought it however many years ago. Yul appears to be some sort of laundry wizard.

“This is impressive,” he admits, turning it over and inspecting it for stains. He’s sure it had even older ones, from even older fights. “Thank you.”

“Eh, you can get me back later.” Yul isn’t listening. “This is your apartment?”

He pushes past Rafael into his space. Rafael has only about a second to feel affronted before Yul is wandering around. The apartment is not much to look at. It’s a small kitchen full of dirty appliances connected to a living room containing a sickly green pull-out couch, for when Nora visits. The final room is the pitch-black bedroom, barely big enough for a bed. Rafael has never put a light in the space. He still deems it an unnecessary luxury, no matter how much Nora complains.

“Yeah,” Rafael bites back, feeling rather defensive.

“Dude, this is terrible.”

Rafael glares, crossing his arms. “That’s rude.”

Yul flushes, suddenly remorseful. He scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry, I—I’m sorry. I’m a fucking idiot, man. I was just wondering where the personality and the color is. Like, don’t get me wrong this building is shitty, but you can make it better. Prom-ise.”

Rafael shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah? You don’t mind fucking idiots?” His eyes widen and he immediately backtracks. “Wait, wait, wait, I don’t mean… fuck-ing fucking, just that—I mean. You don’t mind idiots. You don’t, right?”

Rafael is stunned into silence for a few long seconds, before he recovers. “I don’t mind fucking idiots.”

Yul smiles at him, cheeks pink. “Come on, man, let me show you my roommate and I’s apartment.”

That is how Rafael finds himself squished on a well-worn blue couch beside Yul. The couch is way too small for both of them, especially someone of Rafael’s size. Yul has not shut up the entire time, pointing out every little personal touch in the apartment. He wasn’t lying, the apartment is better than Rafael’s. It is almost identical to Rafael’s, but with two rooms off of the living room. The difference is in the cleanliness, the cluttered but clearly organized surfaces, the warm light from thrifted lamps in scattered corners. Posters and pictures of Yul and presumably friends and family scattered over the walls. The place looks well lived-in. Cramped, but well-loved. Rafael likes it.

“So, do you want help with your place?” Yul finishes his speech with this question, and unlike every other time he’s asked Rafael a question, he doesn’t immediately follow it up with another one.

Rafael blinks. “Uh, what? I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Yul frowns at him. “Why?”

Rafael stands up. “I should probably get back. My sister is coming soon.”

“Wait, wait!” Yul stops him, stumbling into the coffee table and tripping until he hits the wall next to Rafael and the door. He’s like a baby deer that isn’t used to his size yet, limbs not quite synced up to his brain. Rafael hesitates, waiting for Yul to gather himself.

“I don’t mind helping, you deserve an apartment that isn’t shit-ty.” He falters, not meeting Rafael’s eyes. “I mean, if you want, if you don’t I’ll leave you alone.”

Yul has been confident, chatty, and overwhelming the several hours Rafael has known him. It’s a little surprising to see the confidence slip into embarrassed uncertainty. For a visceral second, all Rafael wants is to wipe that look from his face.

“Sure,” he says.

And just like that, Yul beams at him. “Of course, who wants to live in that shithole?”

So begins a series of events Rafael still has yet to figure out. Yul leaves him alone for less than twelve hours before he is at Rafael’s door with a can of paint and two paint brushes. Rafael lets him in and finds himself watching as Yul walks around Rafael’s apartment, shaking his head. Finally, Rafael can’t take it anymore.

“What?”

Yul says, “I’m just…looking…”

Rafael takes a deep breath. “Just…say what it is.”

“Well, it’s like, pitch-black in here besides the lamp, which is a terrible color. Do you by any chance have night vision or something? You have no pots or food in your kitchen. Do you eat? There’s a hole in your bedroom door, have you noticed?”

Rafael scowls. The problem with Yul is that it’s so much easier to just choose one of the many conversation topics he brings up. “I eat.”

“Really?” Yul says, opening a cabinet in the kitchen, gesturing to its bare shelves. “What are you cooking with? And what food?” He bares the empty fridge for emphasis.

Rafael does eat. He eats out a lot, or he eats at the gym, or he eats in the college dining hall with Nora. Subsisting on her guest swipes. He shrugs. “I eat out.”

“God, you’re worse than my mom. She would only eat burgers and fries until her heart exploded if I let her.” Yul slams the fridge door shut and plants his hands on his narrow hips. “Now I have to teach you to cook too? This is ridiculous.”

Rafael learns very quickly, if he hadn’t already, that giving Yul what he wants is the best course of action. He has always responded well to operant conditioning. It’s simple, like swinging a well-aimed punch to be met with the instant reward of knuckles into flesh. It becomes a pattern. Yul comes by fairly often, always with something he claims to have borrowed from his mom’s house or found on the side of the road. This does ease Rafael’s mind a little bit, as Yul lives in this building too and therefore can’t have money to just throw at random men across the hall. But Yul claims his mom is a hoarder with way too many things for one woman, so he says bequeathing things to Rafael is only helping clear out his mother’s house. Rafael didn’t ask for ugly plastic plates covered in what he thinks are birds and flowers, but he takes them because he doesn’t have any plates. He lets Yul paint his living room a garish blue that somehow makes the walls look like there aren’t dents covering the surfaces, and he lets Yul give him fairy lights for his bedroom (he gives those to Nora). He fixes the hole in his door because Yul hates it. He does all these things and just like that first night it brings that bright smile to Yul’s face. Repeated time and time again, like a dog with food and a bell. And just like the dogs, he drools.

His favorite part by far is the cooking. Rafael has learned quickly that Yul is a cook of questionable skill, but boundless enthusiasm. Rafael drives to the college, picks Nora up, and drives her to the nearest Target for pots and pans because he’s been borrowing Yul’s cookware far too long. Nora is highly amused. Rafael even sends her off with an offer to buy her coffee to shut her up, but it does not work.

He’s examining the cheapest selection of pots he can find when Nora sidles up to him, swishing the ice in her outlandish pink Starbucks concoction obnoxiously.

“Something wrong with your kitchen?” she says, her elbow cocked up on his shoulder.

“So many things,” he replies. “But no, I’m buying pots and pans.” Nora grins at him because she’s a terrible person and can read Rafael like a picture book for toddlers. “Why the sudden interest in cooking, Rafa?”

Rafael kicks at a spot on the floor. Nora has never met Yul, and if he has his way she never will.

“I am just learning something useful,” he says carefully.

“Okay,” she says, arms looping around his neck, her drink wet and cold against the side of his face. He doesn’t have the energy to push her off, just returns the hug.

It’s worth it for the way Yul chatters excitedly about the new cookware when Rafael shows him later that night. “Oh, these are great! This pan is way better than mine, do you have some sort of secret sugar daddy? Alright, well today we’re gonna make something for my mom for when she gets off work. Heart healthy, no matter what she says.”

“You learned to cook to force your mom to eat healthier?” Rafael asks.

Yul nods, reaching into a grocery bag and beginning to make himself at home in Rafael’s kitchen. “She ignored my tofu dogs yesterday and thought I wouldn’t notice she went to Wawa instead.”

“Tofu dogs?” Rafael makes a face.

“God, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I just eliminated carbs, it’s not fitting for a man with the BMI of a horse,” Yul says, brandishing a cucumber at Rafael. “It’s almost adorable.”

Rafael stares.

“Listen, tofu dogs are healthier than a fucking hoagie, but you are right. I need to regroup and focus on healthy options that taste good enough she’ll eat them,” Yul says, focusing on spreading his ingredients out on the counter. Rafael takes note of pasta, shrimp, lemons, and some spices and herbs.

“What are you going to make then?”

“Shrimp scampi with zucchini. My mom has always liked seafood.” Yul winks at him conspiratorially. “I’m hoping it’ll trick her into eating the zucchini.”

Yul goes about setting up the tiny kitchen in the way he wants. Rafael’s kitchen doesn’t fit two people well, it’s just a small refrigerator wedged in between a wall and a minimal amount of counter space mostly occupied by a sink. So Rafael hovers to the side, half in the living room, watching. Yul making shrimp scampi is a rather amusing idea. Rafael has only had cooking “lessons” with Yul three times up to this point, and each one has been nothing very complicated. Pancakes, quesadillas, and red velvet cupcakes that had resulted in a truly obscene spill of red food dye all over the floor in Yul’s apartment that he later confided in Rafael had almost caused his roommate to go into cardiac arrest. The roommate hadn’t even had to see Yul covered in it as well, dripping red from his fingers and staring at Rafael like a murder victim.

Shrimp scampi, Rafael has trouble imagining. Yul seems confident however, so Rafael just watches. “Can I help?” he asks.

Yul nods, moving to the side and pushing a lemon in Rafael’s vague direction. Rafael moves across the kitchen and takes it, reaching for a knife. Yul starts slicing the cucumber on the only cutting board Rafael owns, one that Nora had found at Target. It’s an unfortunate neon pink, a fact that Yul had found hilarious. He throws a cucumber slice up into the air, catching it with his mouth, then grins triumphantly at Rafael.

“How’s your sister?”

“She’s good. Enjoying school. She likes her psych class,” Rafael answers, thinking about how much more meddling Nora could do with a psychology degree with mild horror.

“That’s sweet,” Yul smiles at him.

“How’s your mom?” Rafael counters.

“Oh, she’s fine. I think. Not much to report. Busy at work, you know.”

“Just busy?” Rafael asks. He can see Yul’s jaw working as he thinks, making up his mind about something.

“She had a boyfriend. He wasn’t the best person, he was kind of scary. Angry, you know?” Yul says, slicing the cucumber harshly. “He just got out on parole, so I’m kind of worried about her.”

“Why?” Rafael asks.

“I’m worried he’ll bother her.”

Rafael turns to face Yul more directly. Yul is scowling, quiet.

He sets the knife down, fingers shaking slightly. Rafael is a man of few words. He isn’t like Nora, he doesn’t know what to say. Yul is supposed to fill the silence, not him.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” he tries.

Yul lifts his head and raises his eyebrows at him, unimpressed. “I sure hope so. But, for now, let’s see if you can devein a shrimp.”

“You didn’t buy shrimp that was already prepped?”

“Of course not, this is cooking! I am a chef!” Yul says, and his energy is back. He bounces to the side to shove the colander of shrimp at Rafael. Rafael takes it, unable to stop a small smile of his own.

The rest of the evening is uneventful, excluding the actual deveining of the shrimp which is a disaster. Yul and Rafael are unable to prepare the shrimp. Rafael finds himself in his living room alone at the end of the evening, full of lackluster shrimp. He slumps on the couch, his box TV playing some random football game as background noise, and stares at the ceiling. His quiet peace is disturbed by a chime from his phone. He reaches for it because the only people that text him are his coach and Nora, and it’s a little too late for a text unless his coach wants him to fill in a fight at the last minute. Instead, it’s Nora.

come down

He finds Nora at the steps of the building, slumped against the side. Nora looks like a mess, her hair in tangles and the knees on her best jeans ripped. She’s wearing a skimpy tank top Rafael has never seen before, and that makes his eyes narrow. He sinks down at her side, hands on his knees.

“Nora, what’s wrong?”

She turns unfocused eyes to him, sweeping her hair out of her face. “Rafa! Nothing’s wrong.”

Her voice is slurred slightly, and her breath reeks of vodka and whatever other cheap shit her and her freshmen friends have clearly scrounged up.

“Really? Nothing is wrong?” he asks, grasping her upper arms to help haul her to her feet. Her skin is peppered with goosebumps under his palms, and he wonders how long she’s been out here alone.

“No, no,” she promises. “My roommate had a boy over, and I just…”

She trails off, but Rafael understands. Nora is so unlike him in many ways. Her pleasant disposition, her sunny smiles, her social aptitude. But, just like him, sometimes people get to be too much.

“Next time, call me,” he reprimands softly, and she smiles in her way that warms him all over.

“Hey! Hey, what are you doing with her?”

Rafael looks over the top of Nora’s head to see Yul’s roommate Evan stalking towards him, his face flushed red with anger and probably a good deal of alcohol himself. Just one of those days, Rafael supposes. He props Nora against the wall and readies himself to deck this drunk man with only mild annoyance, but Evan is stopped by a hand on his arm.

“That’s his sister, you moron.” Yul appears behind Evan, having been hidden behind Evan’s larger frame.

“Oh,” Evan says, having the decency to look ashamed, and Yul aims a poorly placed kick at his shin that misses and almost causes Yul to trip. It’s possible Rafael is the only sober person alive at this moment, and he looks to the sky for patience.

“Sorry,” Evan tells Rafael, and he waves off the apology. Evan retreats towards the door, having some sort of silent conversation with Yul as he does so. It appears Yul wins, as Evan disappears into the building and Yul turns to face Rafael.

“Do you need any help with her?” he asks, gesturing at Nora. Rafael looks at Nora and finds her still leaning on the building, watching the proceedings with unfocused eyes. He shrugs. Yul takes this as the yes it is and holds a hand out to Nora. Nora grabs it, and between the two of them (mostly Rafael) they manage to help her stumble up all three narrow flights of stairs without incident. The stairs tremble and moan underneath them the entire way.

“That railing needs to be higher,” he comments as he lets Nora collapse on his bed. She burrows into his comforter like a cat, and he briefly wonders if he should get her a bucket as Yul answers.

“I mean, they come up to like, your hip. What’s the point, you could trip and that would be the end of your pretty face, man,” Yul mimes Rafael’s fall with his hand, including a dramatic splat into his other palm.

Rafael pointedly ignores the compliment, leading Yul into the living room. “It’s three flights, I would live.”

“You’d be paraplegic, all your big muscles would shrivel up.”

Nora cackles from the bed, causing Rafael to jump. He grabs Yul’s arm and steers him to the door of the apartment. Yul makes a brief noise of irritation at being manhandled, but then lets himself be steered away. Rafael opens it for him, but he doesn’t leave. He takes one step out the door, and leans against its frame.

“I’ll call the super, tell him the railings make murder way too easy on anyone over 5 ‘10”,” Yul says quietly. His face is still warm and pink from alcohol, and he smiles at Rafael like he’s told a joke that only he finds funny.

Rafael snorts. He’s never even seen a super. He’s convinced the man is a myth. “Thanks for helping Nora,” he says.

“No worries,” Yul whispers, his eyes almost black in the dark of the apartment. “You can get me back next time. Besides, you still owe me for the bloody t-shirt.”

Yul’s still looking at Rafael like he’s missed a humorous moment, lips curled in a small grin. Suddenly, he leans up, and Rafael pulls back in surprise.

“I can’t just—” Rafael says, and he hates that he can hear the crack in his voice. He glances back into the apartment towards where he knows Nora is curled in the dark.

“Yeah,” Yul says. “You’re too much of a pussy to find out.” Yul turns and stumbles down the hall towards his door while Rafael is trying to decide if he’s going to let himself be double-dog-dared into making a move, and Rafael lets him go, proves him right.

He doesn’t see Yul until a few days later. He’s attempting to cook. Not shrimp scampi, God forbid. Just brownies, to drop off for Nora. She has midterms soon. The apartment is quiet, and he’s in a zone. He is fresh from a fight the night before, and it feels good to do something with his hands that doesn’t split his knuckles and cause fresh bruises and scrapes. His peace is interrupted when there is a loud knock on his door. The knocking doesn’t stop as he puts down the whisk he’s been using to mix in the eggs, crosses the room, and throws the door open. Yul stands in the doorway.

“What—” he starts, but Yul cuts him off.

“I need your help.”

Rafael steps back, allowing Yul to brush past him into the apartment. He’s vibrating with nervous energy, wringing his hands and pacing across the living room. Rafael shuts the door and leans back against it, affording Yul some distance.

“Help? With what?” Rafael says apprehensively, crossing his arms.

Yul finally stops moving, turning to face Rafael. “My mom. I was nervous her ex was going to do something, and this morning I saw him lurking around her house. He wasn’t in his car so I think he thought I wouldn’t recognize him, but I saw him. She left for work and he followed. I think he’s going to do something to her.”

Rafael takes a deep breath. Of course. This is why Yul has been hovering. This is why he’s been hanging around, bringing Rafael little things for his apartment, helping him drag Nora up the stairs, pretending to teach him to cook.

“You’re calling in your favor.”

The knowledge settles somewhere deep within his skin. Yul shifts uncomfortably. “If I have to,” he says. “But I’d rather ask for help.”

Rafael’s never once turned down a fight; he’s not sure he’s allowed. He goes and he does what he’s told, and he supposes this isn’t any different.

Yul’s mouth is set in a firm line now, but his hands shake.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to. It’s my mom.” He looks at Rafael, his eyes big and pleading.

Nobody’s looked at him like that since Nora was in kindergarten, small and waiting for him to pick her up, not knowing any better.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

He wipes flour off his hands onto the seat of his jeans, reaches to grab his jacket off the back of a chair, and heads for the door without letting himself analyze it too much. Yul hurries to keep up with him, but doesn’t complain all the way down to Rafael’s car.

“This is the only time,” Rafael says over the Kia’s roof, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Yul shakes his head. “No, I know. Hopefully, I can get him on video breaking his restraining order and he’ll never even know we’re there. I just need some backup.”

He climbs in and gives Rafael directions, and then doesn’t speak again. Yul’s mom’s is close to the college, a rare thing in Pennsylvania. It’s only a few minutes until Rafael stops them across the street a few houses down. They have a clear view of the house Yul points out, but aren’t the first thing one would notice exiting the house. It’s later in the evening, so the street is emptier than it would be during the day. It’s been raining, the pavement shining in the fluorescent lights.

“My mom isn’t home yet,” Yul says quietly, gesturing to the dark windows of the house. “My mom’s car is red, a Subaru, and I saw Jay in a gray sedan earlier.”

Rafael nods, not sure what to say. The car is stopped, engine off, but he keeps his hands gripped tight to the steering wheel as though they need to make a break for it at any moment. Yul lapses back into silence, only broken by the occasional passing car.

“Did you tell your mom?” Rafael asks suddenly.

Yul shakes his head, and as he does, Rafael sees a red car turn the corner and drive past them. Yul sinks down in the seat beside him, pulling his knees up to his chest. His knuckles are white around his shins. Rafael watches the rearview mirror as a woman he assumes is Yul’s mom, a small, plump little woman with hair the same color as his, gets out of her car and enters the house.

“How do you do it?” Yul asks, and Rafael looks at him. “Take care of Nora?”

Rafael shrugs. He has had Nora to look after for as long as he can remember. It is not an option not to do it. It’s not his strength that keeps Nora going day after day, fight after fight.

“Just do,” he decides at last, studying the side of Yul’s face, half lit by street lights.

Yul rolls his head against the back of the seat to face him. “What happens when you’re done?”

Rafael hates him slightly for asking.

“You’ll be the first to know when I find out.”

Rafael hears a soft engine, and shifts to the side to see a gray sedan approaching down the road. He knocks his shoulder against Yul’s, drawing his attention towards it. Yul nods, and gives Rafael a firm nod. Yul plops his hand on the top of the center console, palm up, like a reward.

Rafael tries not to glance at it out of the corner of his eye. Rafael finds himself detaching his hand from the steering wheel, slowly and then all at once. His hand slides to fit with Yul’s.