One night, around two in the morning, you woke up with your heart racing.
The room was dark, except for the orange sliver of light from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. Miguel was snoring beside you, one arm crossed over his chest. The smell was so strong you almost gagged. Not dramatically. Not an overreaction. Just a sudden, involuntary spasm in your throat that made you cry.
You got out of bed and stood there in the dark, covering your mouth with your hand.
It smelled of damp plastic, rot, mold, and something else. Something metallic and sour. Something hidden for too long.
Miguel stirred. “What are you doing?”
—I can’t breathe here.
He turned to you, his face shadowed and unreadable. “Ana. Go back to sleep.”
—There’s something wrong with this bed.
—No, there isn’t one.
The certainty in her voice was more terrifying than any denial. Because it didn’t sound like a guess. It sounded like an order.
