When the bus was empty, Manuel didn’t go to the depot. He walked down the aisle and knelt beside Lucía’s seat.
He reached into the ventilation grille where she had hidden the object. His fingers brushed against a small container.
As he pulled it out into the light of the setting sun, his heart leaped. It wasn’t candy or a toy.
It was a blister pack of pills, partially used. Manuel froze, staring at the pill and putting two and two together.
Manuel sat still, the pack trembling in his palm. Medication — but not the kind he feared.
As his eyes scanned the label, a whisper of recognition tightened his chest.
He had seen those same pills on his wife’s bedside table once, long ago, back when hospitals and goodbyes filled his days.
He didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, he walked straight into the school office and asked to speak with the counselor. His voice was gentle but firm — the kind that carries worry, not accusations.
“I think someone needs help,” he said, placing the pills on the desk.
Within hours, things shifted quietly. A nurse spoke with Lucía. A meeting was arranged. And that afternoon, instead of Javier waiting at the stop, a social worker approached the bus.
