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Preston’s not suspicious. Preston’s excited, the way he gets excited about things – contained on the surface, practically radioactive underneath. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled and pants that probably cost what I make in a week, and he looks like he belongs in the back of a town car the way I belong in a trauma bay. Naturally. Without thinking about it.

I’m wearing jeans and a jacket he bought me for Christmas, which I’ll never admit fits better than anything I’ve ever owned.

“You look nice,” Preston says, adjusting my collar.

“I look like you dressed me.”

“I did dress you. Partially. I picked the jacket. The jeans are acceptable. The shoes are yours and I have no comment.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re tragic. But they’re comfortable. Get in the car.”

I open the door and a champagne cork flies past my left ear.

“DUCK!” Alistair bellows from inside. “Oh – too late. Did it hit anyone? Miguel, did it hit someone?”

“It hit the parking meter!” Miguel calls out cheerfully. “That’s very good luck in Costa Rica!”

“That is not a thing,” Preston says, climbing in.

“It is a thing! My grandmother said so! She also said parking meters are bad luck, so it cancels out. Get in, get in!”

Miguel has his legs crossed and a champagne flute already in hand. Captain Beaky’s perched on the headrest behind him, eyeing the upholstery like he knows exactly what it costs. Alistair’s pouring a second glass, champagne foaming over his hand and onto his linen pants. He doesn’t appear to care.

“Boys!” Alistair booms. “Isn’t this marvellous? Saturday morning! The city! The promise of new things!”

“Good morning, Alistair,” I say, sliding in next to Preston. “Miguel.”

“Hola, guapo!” Miguel waves his flute. “You look very strong today, Luke. Like a statue. Alistair, doesn’t he look like a statue?”

“He looks like a Silva,” Alistair says, as if that’s a compliment. In his mouth, it might be. “Strong bones. Good jaw. Your mother’s jaw, actually. Rosa has a very authoritative jaw. I’ve always admired it. From a safe distance, of course.”

“Champagne?” Miguel thrusts a glass toward me. It’s 10:04 in the morning.

“He’ll take it,” Preston says, taking two glasses and handing me one. “We’ll both take it. Something tells me we’re going to need it.”

“You are going to love it!” Alistair declares. “This is the finest surprise I have ever orchestrated, and I once arranged for Pavarotti to sing at a shareholder meeting.”

“That was Frank Sinatra,” Miguel corrects. “And it was a recording.”

“It was the spirit of Sinatra. The intent was there.”

Captain Beaky opens his beak and shrieks, with perfect clarity: “Mierda!”

“He’s been saying that since our trip to Bogotá,” Miguel sighs, stroking the parrot’s head. “The customs officer taught him. It was a very stressful border crossing.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see!”

We drive for twenty minutes. Over the bridge into Brooklyn – I track it automatically. Cobble Hill. Carroll Gardens. Then south, into tree-lined streets where the brownstones sit shoulder to shoulder, limestone and brick, the kind of houses that have existed in this city since before my grandparents left Puerto Rico.

The car stops.

“We’re here!” Alistair announces, flinging his door open before the driver can get to it. “Everybody out! Mind the parrot, he bites!”

We stand on the sidewalk. The street’s Saturday-morning quiet. There are trees. There’s a wrought-iron fence. There is, behind the fence, a garden. And behind the garden, a brownstone.