When the young woman from the next room unlocks Miguel’s door and tells you to stay calm, you already know calm has left the building.
Then the smell hits.
Cold dampness. Sweat dried into blankets. Cheap medicine. Closed air. Hunger.
And something else.
Something underneath all of it that makes your body go rigid before your mind can name it: abandonment.
The room is dark except for a weak yellow lamp in the corner. The curtains are half drawn. A plastic fan sits motionless on a crate. There is one narrow bed, a table crowded with paper cups, instant noodle wrappers, and bottles of water, and a single folding chair with a jacket thrown over it.
On the bed lies your son.
For one impossible second, your mind refuses to accept the shape.
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