The morning Titong turned seven, his papa said, "Valentino, today is your lucky day." Full of cane sugar liquor, he palmed Titong's head, his sharpened thumbnail inside his son's ear.Titong stopped chewing; the bread and orange cheese a soggy lump in his cheek. His mama boiled coffee on the burner.

"Get those dirty knives off my table," his mama said. She spooned sugar into a bowl of coffee and Titong watched until the tiny black ants stopped swimming.

"This one is new." His papa ran his fingertip over the bolo's shiny blade.

"You shouldn't spend for the boy."

Titong realized he wasn't breathing.

"I won the pot last night. I took this from that bastard Boyet."

His papa pointed the blade at Titong and stared hard at him. Titong understood he shouldn't look away.

"The boy isn't ready for a weapon."

"How else will he become a man?"