Excerpt from Gateway to the Moon by Mary Morris, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

On the wall, buried among the sad eyes of missing dogs and an offer to sell an old Honda 360 for a hundred dollars, he sees a notice, "Couple Seeks Afternoon Babysitter for Two Little Boys. Must have wheels." It's got smiley faces all over it and little tabs with the number to call. No one's taken a number yet. Miguel could use some cash. His mom is barely getting by and he has almost nothing to spend on books, gas, or girls. The job is out on Colibri Canyon Road just north of Santa Fe, about forty minutes from his place. He gets out of school at two and can easily be there before three. Besides summer vacation will be starting soon.

Miguel knows Colibri Canyon. He worked there once when his father was laying pipes. That was a long time ago but he remembers it as a dirt road that winds its way through the canyons. It's a pretty isolated spot. But Miguel isn't picky. In the summers he does construction, mostly installing drywall and painting houses, so this summer maybe he'll try babysitting. It seems like easier work. He tears a strip from the sheet and tucks it into his pocket. Though he isn't quite fifteen, he looks older, and he's been driving since he was twelve. He can get his learner's permit soon. And his father's old Chevy sits in front of their trailer.

At last Señora Mendes heads out the door, and the bell tinkles as she goes. "Papi, can I make a call?" the boy asks.

Mr. Roybal points to the old black phone. "Help yourself." Instead of calling his mother, Miguel phones the number in the notice. In two rings he hears a woman's singsongy recorded voice. She sounds as if she's doing a commercial for dish soap. "You've reached the Rothstein residence—­Rachel, Nathan, Jeremy, and Davie. You know what to do!" And then there is the beep.

Miguel hesitates. "I'm interested in the position of babysitter," he says. "I saw your ad," and he leaves his name and number. When he hangs up, he goes to pay for the milk and Hershey bar. But old man Roybal has spread out on the counter the tattered copy of his family tree and he's hunched over it. Miguel leans across the counter, gazing at the maze of branches that make up the Roybal lineage, which consists, more or less, of everyone in Entrada. It makes Miguel uneasy to see his own name dangling from a stem with the year of his birth and a blank space for his death. He doesn't like to think about life having a beginning and an end. He prefers to think of it as a continuous loop that goes around and around the way the Navajo do.

Miguel takes out his wallet and is about to pay when the old man waves him away. "You'll pay me next time."

He assumes he won't pay the next time either. "Thanks, papi."

Vincent Roybal gives the boy another wave, dismissing him. "De nada, m'hijo."

Miguel walks home under the starry night, telescope under one arm, munching on his Hershey bar. He loves chocolate. Even though it's badfor his skin, he has a candy bar at least once a day. He's so skinny he'deat them all the time if he could, but his mother always says he'll ruinhis dinner. So he sneaks them on his way home. Besides he's almost starving when he walks in and is greeted by the familiar smell of the chicken stew his mother has cooked.

"You're late," she says without looking up. She's right. She's already swept the house, moving all the dirt into the center of their trailer where she scoops it up with a dustpan. He's never understood why she doesn't just sweep it out the door. But when he asks her, she just replies, "Because we don't." She's turned the portrait of the Virgin Mary to the wall and lit the candles. She's said the blessing with her eyes closed, moving her hands in a circle. His mother doesn't like to perform the Friday-night rituals without him, yet she won't complain. She'll just ignore him for a little while.

Excerpted from Gateway to the Moon by Mary Morris. Copyright © 2018 by Mary Morris. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.