“Give me his address,” she said sharply. “I want to see this ‘emergency’ for myself.”
The address led her far from her usual world: 847 Los Naranjos Street, in San Miguel—a modest, working-class neighborhood. As her black Mercedes rolled slowly over broken pavement, past puddles, stray dogs, and barefoot children, Laura felt the distance from her own life with every turn. Curious neighbors stared at the car like it didn’t belong there—because it didn’t.
She stopped in front of a small, faded blue house. The number on the door was barely readable. She knocked, firm and impatient.
At first, there was silence. Then hurried footsteps, children’s voices, and the cry of an infant. When the door finally opened, Laura froze.
Carlos stood there holding a baby, his face pale, his eyes ringed with exhaustion. A small child clung tightly to his leg, while another watched her warily from behind the doorframe. He looked nothing like the quiet, neatly dressed man she saw every morning.
It took him a moment to recognize her. When he did, his expression drained completely.
“M-Mrs. Mendoza… I didn’t expect—”
Laura said nothing. The scene before her didn’t match the story she had imagined. There was no laziness, no deception—only fatigue that seemed to seep from his bones.
“May I come in?” she asked, her voice firmer than she felt.
After a brief hesitation, Carlos stepped aside.
Inside, the house was cramped but clean. Too small for a family that size. A rattling fan pushed warm air around the room. A crib sat in one corner, school notebooks and medicine bottles crowded a small table, and laundry lay half-folded nearby.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” Carlos murmured. “Last night was hard.”
The baby cried again. From another room came the sound of a deep, persistent cough.
“How many children?” Laura asked quietly.
“Four,” he replied. “The youngest is three months old.”
Her breath caught. Slowly, the pieces began to align.
