My dad saw me limping down the street, holding my baby and grocery bags, and asked where my car was.

Then I heard my name.

“Camila?”

I turned. My father’s face stared at me through the windshield, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“Dad,” I said, my voice smaller than I intended.

He pulled the car over immediately, turning on his hazard lights before the engine had even stopped. He stepped out quickly, still wearing his work shirt with the CFE logo stitched across the chest. His forearms were sunburned, and he carried the look of a man who was always in the middle of fixing something.

His gaze dropped straight to my ankle.

Then to Mateo.

Then to the grocery bag.

Evidence.

“Why are you walking?” he asked. “Where’s your car?”

My stomach tightened.