Miguel tries again to lift his head.
His voice comes out like paper.
“I told her not to.”
That makes you angry enough to stand.
Not because you want to hurt him. Because fear has nowhere else to go.
“Not to call me?” you say. “You stopped answering for three days, you told me you were working, and I find you like this in a freezing room and you told people not to call me?”
Elena steps back, giving you space.
Miguel closes his eyes.
It is then, looking down at him, that you realize just how much weight he has lost. You knew he was careful with money. Knew he lived modestly. Knew he always sent you most of what he earned from the city, month after month, as faithfully as sunrise. But you had not understood the arithmetic of sacrifice all the way down to the bone.
He had been making $1,500 a month.
