You swallow. “He was cold.”
The answer sounds too small the moment it leaves your mouth, but it is the truth. Not you are welcome. Not it was nothing. Just the simple reason. He was cold.
Mateo wipes his face with the back of his hand and immediately tries to stand straighter, as if he suddenly remembers he is twelve and not supposed to be caught crying in front of anyone, least of all his father.
“I was fine,” he mutters.
Ricardo Mendoza looks at him with the patient exhaustion of a man who knows better and hates that he knows better too late.
“You were lost in a storm.”
“I wasn’t lost.”
“You were wandering downtown Bogotá in the rain without your phone, without Joaquín, and without telling anyone where you were.”
Mateo flinches at each phrase like his father is setting down bricks one by one. Then he lifts his chin, stubborn and trembling at the same time.
“I didn’t want to go home.”
