Carme was used to that humble chaos where every minute was worth gold.
He looked at the screen: unknown number.
He didn’t usually answer, but something —an old premonition, one of those that forms after thirty years of watching children suffer in silence— made him slide his finger.
—Doctor Reyes? —asked a young, servile voice—. I am Rosa Mendoza. You treated my son two years ago… when he had pneumonia.
Carmen frowned, searching her memory among hundreds of faces.
—Yes… Rosa. What’s wrong?
There was air, as if the girl had to push the words.
—I need to ask you a huge favor. I work as a nanny… for a family in the city. They have a six-month-old baby. His name is Sebastián.
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