When Samuel appears, holding Mateo like the baby is a fragile promise, you feel something tighten behind your ribs.
Not pity, not even guilt. Curiosity with teeth.
You watch him approach with that same straight spine, that careful distance, like he’s learned the world punishes kids who get too close.
“Today was a bad day,” he says, and his voice is calm, but his eyes are tired in a way no twelve-year-old should know.
You nod like you’re discussing market fluctuations. “What happened.”
He shifts Mateo higher on his arm. “Didn’t find much to sell,” he admits. “People already took the good cardboard.”
You glance down at his hands.
They’re small, but the knuckles have scuffs, and the skin looks dry from cold mornings and metal edges.
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