Last Summer of the Death Warriors by Francesco X Stork

say something else to her.
    “Helen,” D.Q. said, “would you mind leaving us? I need to undress.”
    “No, certainly not. I’ll leave you now. Good-bye.” She turned toward Pancho. “Nice to meet you.” Pancho nodded.
    Just as she opened the door to leave, D.Q. said, “Helen, I think it would be better if we didn’t see each other. It’s too distracting. I need to focus on the healing process, as you say.”
    The fair skin on her face turned red, from hurt or anger, Pancho didn’t know. “You are still coming to stay with us after the initial treatment session.”
    “Yeah, that was the deal. Good-bye, Helen.”

CHAPTER 14
    P ancho and Father Concha walked side by side toward the van. D.Q. had been wheeled out on a stretcher to start the medical procedures. Father Concha had obtained permission for Pancho to stay with D.Q.
    “Have you ever been in a hospital before?” Father Concha asked.
    “No.” He didn’t think identifying his sister’s body was what Father Concha meant by “being in a hospital.”
    They passed by a children’s playground. Plastic horses of various colors were stuck on thick springs. People had gone to a lot of trouble to make this hospital not look like a hospital.
    “What’s going to happen to D.Q.?” Pancho was just trying to get a clearer picture of when and how he could carry out his plan.
    Father Concha slowed down as if he didn’t want to rush an answer. “Are you asking whether the clinical trials have any chance of succeeding?”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “What will happen to him after the treatments? Where’s he going to end up?”
    “Ahh. Where’s he going to end up?” Father Concha slowed down even more. The harder the question, the slower he needed to walk.
    “It doesn’t look like his mother will let him go.”
    “No, it doesn’t look that way.” Father Concha stopped walking. They were on a sidewalk leading to the parking lot. People in back of them began to go around them. There was a concrete bench a few feet ahead, the kind where people sat while waiting for a bus. Father Concha walked toward it and sat down. Pancho waited a moment and then sat next to him. He thought Father Concha was going to continue speaking, but he had turned silent. Pancho wanted to ask why the mother had left D.Q. at St. Anthony’s, but the question could be taken to mean that he was willing to get involved in D.Q.’s life, and he was already in deeper than he cared to be.
    “It is not easy to get involved with someone in D.Q.’s situation,” Father Concha said.
    “You mean someone who’s dying.”
    “I would say someone who is trying very hard to live purposefully.”
    “Sucking out all the meollo from the bone.”
    “Así es,” said Father Concha. It was the first time Pancho had heard him speak Spanish. He hoped that was all he was going to say in Spanish because his Spanish was not all that great.
    “I’m not getting involved.” It came out as a warning, which was fine with him.
    Father Concha did not respond. He stretched out his legs. Pancho noticed that the priest’s socks did not match: The left sock was blue and the right sock was black. The black loafers were worn out and needed polishing. Father Concha joined his hands across his stomach, like someone about to take a nap. Pancho saw him close his eyes. Just when he thought the priest had fallen instantly asleep, he heard him say, “How long were you thinking of staying with us?”
    Pancho looked at him quickly, surprised. Father Concha’s eyes were closed. It was possible that D.Q. had said something to him, but what? All that D.Q. knew or had guessed was that Pancho had his own reasons to come to Albuquerque. He had to stop thinking that everyone knew exactly what he was up to.
    “How long do you want me to stay?” Lying and pretending required an energy he preferred not to waste.
    Father Concha nodded. He seemed grateful for the honest answer. “If you could stay with him while the treatment lasts,