Maybe it’s a couple of weeks. Abra’s got a job with Mrs. D., waking up at four a.m., leaving at five, starting work at six, making it over to the Mission, some sweatshop with all Filipino ladies making jewelry stands out of felt and Styrofoam. Making dollar and fifty an hour. Probably talking unionizing in between. Comes home by three p.m. smelling like glue, just in time to pick up the twins at school and start organizing to save the I-Hotel. Organizing every day until midnight. Sleep four hours, then start again. Something’s got to give.

I see Abra. I ask, “When’s it happening? “

“What?”

“The revolution.”

She’s gotta show optimism, so she says, “Soon, Felix. Soon.”