The loan officer had a habit of tapping her pen against the folder whenever she finished a sentence, and by the third tap Teresa had started to dread it.

“Ask your father,” the woman said, “whether the food truck has been profitable for the past twelve months.” Tap.

Teresa turned to her father and put the question into Spanish. He listened with his hands folded on the table, the way he listened to the news on the radio, and then answered at length. The truck had made money every month except the two when the generator broke, and that was the generator’s fault, not his. He had paid back every dollar he had ever borrowed, including the money from his own brother, which was more than his brother could say.

Teresa turned back to the officer. “He says it has been profitable for ten of the last twelve months. The two exceptions were due to an equipment repair.”

It was true. It was also not what he had said. She had left out the brother, and the pride, and the place where his voice rose a little. She had made him sound like a man who filled out forms.

The officer nodded and wrote something down, and the meeting went on that way for twenty minutes: long answers in Spanish, short answers in English, and Teresa in the middle, trimming.

In the parking lot her father unlocked the truck and did not start it.

“Ten of twelve,” he said in English. “Equipment repair.”

Teresa stared at him. In seventeen years she had never heard him put together an English sentence longer than a price.

“I understand more than I say,” he said, in Spanish now. “You did well. You made me sound like a bank.” He turned the key, and the engine coughed and caught. “Next time, leave in my brother. She would have liked that part.”