“Take her out,” you repeat, harsher this time. “Now.”
The nurse who has rushed into the room is breathing fast, but her face does not show the outrage you expect. It shows something worse: recognition. She looks from you to the girl and then back again, and when she says the name “Lupita,” it comes out with the exasperation of someone confronting a problem too familiar to be called an emergency.
The little girl finally looks at you.
Her eyes are dark, steady, and unnervingly calm. Not bold in the insolent way of spoiled children. Calm in the way of someone who has already seen enough pain to stop being intimidated by expensive rooms or expensive men. Water drips from her fingertips onto the polished floor.
“He needed it,” she says.
You stare at her in disbelief. “Needed what? Random water from a bottle?”
“Not random,” she answers. “Bendita.”
Blessed.
