There is this kid, Ricky, he works for a client of mine. A constant question asked at this place, “Where is Ricky?”

Ricky does electrical work, he drives the truck, he mounts tires, he manages the parts room, he mows the lawn. He pulls data cable. He builds walls and hangs and tapes sheetrock.

I just need to say, “Ask Ricky to run me some cat5 over there.” I never worry how it’s done. He leaves them marked clearly for me.

He’s done remote computer support for me when I couldn’t get there, “Have Ricky get me on remotely.”

We’ve worked together on the hot-tar roof fixing security cameras, in 90-degree sun, sweating. I’ve never heard Ricky bitch. He laughs at my Spanish and says, “That’s not how you say it, man,” and we both laugh.

Yesterday I saw him standing still, a rarity, In front if a big flat-screen TV. He was watching the president speak of his latest immigration plan.

I’m not 100% sure Ricky is here legally. I never asked. I couldn’t care less.

I walked up to him and asked him if he was ok.

He said, “I’m scared, Bill.”

I put my arm around my friend and said, “I’m scared too, buddy.”