The yellowish light from the hanging spotlight hit his face.
He was just over thirty. Thin. With a stubble beard. His soaked shirt clung to his body. He smelled of cheap alcohol, wet streets, and pent-up rage.
Lucía let go of Alejandro’s hand only to run towards the cardboard box where the twins were.
Not to hug them.
To cover them.
As if that man were more dangerous than hunger.
“I told you not to come in late,” he muttered, staring at the girl. “Where did you go, you little brat?”
Alejandro didn’t move.
“The ambulance is on its way,” he said coldly.
The man looked him up and down, surprised to find someone like that in that room.
Then he looked at the bed.
Then the cans.
And for an instant, barely an instant, something like fear appeared on his face.
“Who the hell are you?” he spat.
—Someone who called for help when they saw that no one else was doing it here.
The man scoffed, but his sneer fell flat.
“We didn’t need help. My wife is just tired.”
Lucia trembled.
“That’s not true,” she whispered from the corner. “Mom’s been like this for two days…”
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