Then everything collapsed.
The little girl—Camila—slipped from the bench. Her legs failed her mid-step, and she fell onto the gravel, unmoving. The pot tipped. Rice spilled across the ground.
Karina screamed.
The boy, Julián, dropped beside his sister, crying out her name. People turned. Murmurs rose. But no one acted.
Leonardo dropped to his knees. He felt for a pulse. It was there—but faint. Her skin was cold. Her lips cracked.
He didn’t hesitate.
He lifted Camila into his arms. She weighed almost nothing.
“We’re going to the hospital,” he said firmly.
Karina tried to protest. “Sir, I don’t have—”
“That doesn’t matter,” Leonardo said. “Come. Now.”
The drive through Monterrey blurred into urgency. Red lights, horns, noise—all irrelevant. In the back seat, Karina cradled Camila, whispering prayers through tears. Julián cried silently, as if conserving emotion the way he conserved food.
