“No,” the voice said, sharp and harsh. “I’m not home. I’m staying with my sister for a few days. I’m not feeling well, Joaquín, I’m not up for visitors. Just deposit the money. I need it by two o’clock today. The medicine can’t wait.”
—But Mrs. Leti…
—Do it for Marisol, Joaquín. You promised me.
*Click.*
The call cut off. Joaquín stared at the phone with a mixture of nausea and disbelief. That last sentence. *“Do it for Marisol.”* It was the exact trigger. The master key they had used for five years to unlock his wallet and his conscience. But this time, the key didn’t turn. It broke inside the lock.
He served Camila breakfast, dressed in his work uniform—thick denim pants, a blue shirt with the faded logo of “Hernández Electricity,” and safety boots—and took the girl to school.
—Be good, shorty. I’ll pick you up at the exit.
—Yes, Dad. Hey… are we going to have electricity on Monday? I heard you were telling Uncle Oscar about some money.
Joaquín felt a pang in his chest. The girls heard everything; they understood more than anyone could have imagined.
—Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. The power won’t go out. I promise.
