—Grandpa—she said, barely audible, as if the sound itself might betray her—. We can’t go home.
Sυs palabras пo teпíaп seп ese momentпto, pero la forma eп qυe las dijo coпvertió lo absυrdo eп υrgeпte.
I looked at her in the rearview mirror, hoping to find a joke, a weak exaggeration, something that could explain it without complications.
But there was nothing of that on his face.
There was fear.
A real, raw fear that belongs to the children who should still believe that the world is safe as long as the adults are nearby.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, feeling something inside me begin to tense up.
She hesitated, as if every word were a calculated risk.
“I overheard Grandma,” he whispered. “She was talking about money… and how to make it seem natural.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.
