The words land harder than the thunder.
You feel them in your ribs, because children do not say things like that casually. Not when they are wet and hungry and shaking. Not when the man standing in front of them owns buildings and headlines and more money than your whole neighborhood has probably seen in one place. A child only says I didn’t want to go home when home has become a place that feels emptier than the street.
Ricardo hears it too. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens.
The driver, a broad man in his fifties with rain collecting on his gray hair, approaches from the corner where he must have parked the car. He looks relieved to see Mateo alive and also terrified to be in trouble.
“Sir,” he says carefully.
Mateo turns away. “I said I don’t want to talk to him.”
Joaquín lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry, young sir.”
The rain keeps falling. Santiago lets out a tiny complaint and shifts against your chest, hungry now, probably cold too. Your own blouse is soaked through. You know you should leave. You know this family is none of your business. You know the smart thing would be to nod once, wish them well, and disappear back into the evening before the world remembers exactly who belongs to which side of the tinted glass.
Instead, because your mouth often moves before caution can catch it, you look at Mateo and say, “Maybe everybody can stop talking like they’re in court for one minute.”
The silence that follows is so complete you almost regret breathing.
