That February night, the cold seeped into my bones. I had curled up against my backpack, trying to ignore the hunger, when I heard a car engine stop directly above where I was. Headlights filtered through the cracks of the bridge, a beam of white light in the dirty gloom.
Doors opening. Muffled voices. Then firm footsteps on the concrete, approaching the staircase that led down to “my” corner.
I sat up, tense. At that hour, nobody with good intentions came down there.
When I saw him, I thought I was hallucinating.
A tall man in an expensive wool coat, a perfectly knotted gray scarf, shoes that had never touched mud in their lives. The wind stirred his gray hair, but his presence remained intact—imposing.
“María…” his voice trembled for a second. “My God… it’s you.”
I swallowed.
“Don Ernesto…” I whispered.
