Ariel Beckham.
“Can you?” Aunt Teresa asks, handing me a lunch box that she has curated for Ramirez.
“He’s always liked my waffles, soup, and chicken salad. Tell me, what does he eat in the office? He hasn’t come to the kitchen since he returned home. I wonder if he even eats. When he was younger, he used to help me in the kitchen all the time. He and his father—” Her voice falters, but she recovers quickly. “Tell me, what does he eat?”
I scratch my head awkwardly. “I think he eats cigarettes,” I admit, knowing it’s not far from the truth.
Aunt Teresa shakes her head, bustling towards the fridge. “Then, I must make him some turmeric juice. That boy is damaging his lungs!” she mutters, adding the drink to the already full lunch box. She looks at me with a hopeful gleam in her eyes, pus
