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Cold fear twisted in my stomach. I couldn't argue now, not with José lying on the ground, shaking, while Mamá and Marcos tried to hoist him up. But how could I talk to the patrón? A man who yelled at his workers about any little thing would never listen to a kid, especially a kid whose English was sure to come out all wrong. It always did when I was nervous or upset. And yelling the names of vegetables in Spanish wasn't going to help me one bit this time.