Since age ten, Chavez has started every morning by looking in the mirror and acknowledging that he probably wouldn’t survive the day. Many times, he could have died. Several of his friends have. There has been no reason to think about the future. There has been no point to the present other than survival. Only his grandmother made an effort to tell him anything different. Now she’s dead–dead from the flu. Chavez knows she’s dead because she was poor, dead because she wasn’t white. No one cared about her, and now no one cares about him. Why should he care about any of them?