For AmyEmilio's mother was long-practiced in the art of summoning a saint. For a burn, she'd appeal to the apostle John. It was John who got the call twice a day for a year when Emilio was only three. His mother had left him alone in the kitchen, a dishtowel tied around his neck to catch the canjica she'd made for their breakfast. It simmered over a low flame. A noise at the front door pulled her away. Emilio remembers this day in flashes: his mother's bare ankle, a sharp hoot of laugher, a shrill rebuke, a sliver of his father in a doorframe, only just returning from the night before, black b