Now, there's nothing left.
"Sir," a police officer approached, "may I ask you a few questions?"
Ramirez looked at him.
"What questions?"
"Last night, did you have any disputes with anyone? Have you received any threatening letters?"
Ramirez laughed, a bitter laugh.
"Officer, every Mexican on this street has received threatening letters. In the past three days, someone threw stones at my window, someone painted skulls on my door, and someone called saying 'Go back to Mexico.' I reported it three times, your people came, looked, said 'We'll investigate,' and then there was no more news."
The officer said nothing.
Ramirez turned around and looked at the still-smoking ruins.
"I haven't been back to Mexico in twenty-three years," he said, "My children were born in the United States, they only speak English, they like McDonald's, they like the NBA, they don't even understand Spanish. They are Americans. But now someone tells them, you're not Americans, you're Mexicans, go back."
