On a shelf between photos of his family sits a row of dusty candlesa father never lights. The electricity’s out. In the hot summer night, bugsfind their way in the dark. In a scramble for matches, the father creepsaround the couch where his daughter’s sleeping. He’s thinking of the flour tortillashe rolled all morning, and his little girl, who dreams of snow and ice,and he thinks, too, about bugs coming through the windows, the pipes,those gaps in the slats that he can’t control. Under the kitchen sink, a maze of pipesand a small fire extinguisher block the emergency candles.Sweating through his shirt, the father, praying to soak his feet in ice,praying the food in the fridge won’t spoil and the smell won’t attract more bugs,eats like a dog in the dark. A shred of tortillafalls from his mouth into his slipper. The thought of waste keeps creeping,so he keeps wolfing what’s left in the dark, spilling scraps bugs creepinside to share. Without the glow of a stove light, his daughter can no longer pipefrosting over the cakes she bakes in her dreams. Inside his slipper, the shred of tortillafeels like a bunion against his toe. The father’s friends brought candlesand foil-wrapped trays the first night he slept alone. Crouching low with the bugs,he searches for a candle under the sink. An hour passes without the freezer’s buzz; the icecubes weep back to water. His wife’s unworn bracelet lies on her nightstand, cool as ice.Striking a match, the father remembers the officers—how they never creptbut nearly busted in before he opened the door. He thinks how even the bugsentered his home quietly, how neither wiped their feet. What passes through the pipesin a child’s brain at night? Who is there to hold a candlethrough her dreams? Morning after morning, he wakes up and makes tortillaswith his pent-up passion. He hopes his daughter isn’t too warm, hopes for the tortillasquilted around her to cool as she dreams. She slept through the night her mother was taken by ICE.The father hopes for his daughter to paint his toenails the color of candlelightagain, for little sunsets she’ll wedge cotton balls between. Last time, for a week, he crepton the balls and heels of his feet to keep her brushstrokes beautiful. These memories, steaming pipesradiating his bones. He won’t touch the candles his friends gave him; it would bughim to have to ignite their gifts. Emergency candle phallic in his hand—has someone buggedhis brain? Are they listening for fantasies of his deported wife? In this dark kitchen, a tortillais a full moon he prays to. He puts a match to the candle like a freshly packed pipe.The wick crisps, but holds. An apartment appears all around. Wax melts like icecream down his knuckles. He holds the flickering flame to his daughter’s face, creepsaway when he sees the braids he poorly plaited into her hair. He floats the candlearound the kitchen, until every bug is crushed like ice or out of sight. He finishesthe last tortilla, bites it down to a waning crescent. The sound of an old bagpipestarts its creepy hum from the freezer. The stove light swallows his candle.