One Final Gift

The wind-swept lot feels lonelier now, without El Chino cracking jokes, telling stories, looking jaunty in his painter whites. The men approve of sending their friend back to El Salvador.

"Most of us, we don't think we are going to stay here," says Hernandez. "Some day we want to return to our land."

Chau , El Chino . They do what they can to aid the journey. Monday evening before the vigil at the church, the friends return to the trailer to open several of the collection boxes. They count the cash, twice, with witnesses to vouch for the integrity of the process.

The resulting wad is as thick as a dictionary. Callused hands shove it into an envelope, then slip in something else: a keychain medallion, stamped with images of a soccer ball, a net and a cleat.

Paz scrawls the sum on the outside of the envelope: $857.46.

* * *

Argueta grew up poor, in an improvised shack on vacant land. His father was a bricklayer.

Argueta was drafted into the Salvadoran army to fight guerrillas. His oldest brother was murdered. When he got out of the army, he held the possibly even more dangerous job of night security guard. At 26, he followed Nelson's path to D.C., where they had friends.

"People think the reason we come to the United States is to try to be rich," Nelson Argueta says. "The reality is, you just come here to make a life. You can eat better, you can live better," and most important of all, "you can be safe. "

The brothers lived in an Adams Morgan apartment. El Chino delivered pizzas for Domino's and worked in the kitchen of Mr. Day's in Dupont Circle. In recent Decembers, he sold Christmas trees on a Langley Park street corner.

One day four years ago, at Prince George's Plaza waiting for the F4 bus, he noticed a woman waiting for the C4. They started talking. The F4 came and went.

"That's your bus, why aren't you taking it?" Dilcia Areli Banegas recalls asking.