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“You little bitch,” José hissed back at me. He put his hands on a long aluminum cabinet that stood against the wall by the door, then lowered his head and went silent.

The sudden hush worried me, and I took a more conciliatory tack.

“Come over here and sit down,” I said. “Let me show you how a few small changes could improve your article.” I scrolled down a page on the iBook. “In the final paragraph, where you say Ice-T was in NWA? He was never in NWA. You must have been thinking of Ice Cube.”

José pushed off the cabinet and clapped like a boxer doing push-ups.

“And here, where you list the names of the rappers who have been murdered: Notorious B.I.G., Tupac Shakur, and Biggie Smalls? That’s not right. It’s true they were murdered, but Biggie Smalls and Notorious B.I.G. were the same guy.”

José’s cheeks went scarlet, and he squealed in falsetto, “Whaaat?”

“Fact checking–”

“Whaaat?” he sang out again, then bounced his backside off the aluminum cabinet. It rocked against the wall and tilted forward. The doors swung open and office supplies crashed to the floor.