As Rafael had instructed, I’d pawned anything of his that was of value—not a frag of a lot—and cleared out the rest. I’d kept the sentimental stuff—a holo of Rafael and me from our security guard days, a few of his oversized shirts and one of Mama G’s favorite sweaters, and the sad-eyed holo of Christ that had hung above the kitchen door. And Rafael’s Harley Scorpion, which I couldn’t bear to part with, even though I couldn’t ride the thing.