“I saw your nephew outside the gates yesterday, Rosa,” Patricia said, her voice coming clearly through the small speakers.

Rosa stopped wrapping the food.

Her shoulders tensed immediately, and she kept her eyes on the counter.

“He was only bringing me my medicine, señora,” Rosa said.

“He does not have a legal work visa, does he?” Patricia asked.

“He is here on a tourist visa, señora,” Rosa replied, her voice shaking.

“It would be very easy for me to make a phone call,” Patricia said.

She picked up a green apple from the bowl on the counter and turned it slowly in her hand.

“A call to federal immigration services would set off an inquiry,” she continued.

“They would deport him, and then they would look at your paperwork.”

Rosa dropped the roll of foil.

It hit the tiled floor with a loud, metallic clatter.

“Please, señora, I have worked for Señor Duarte for twenty years,” Rosa pleaded.

“Emiliano does not control the federal government,” Patricia said.

She took a slow, deliberate bite of the apple.