He tries.
His boots drag first, then catch, then slide again on the slope of mixed trash and dirt. He winces when his bad arm bumps against his side. For one terrible second you think he will collapse completely and crush you both into the filth, but then he finds enough balance to stagger beside you.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“To my home.”
The word home feels too proud for what waits on the edge of the dump, but it is the one your grandmother uses, so you use it too. People who have almost nothing must be careful with words. Sometimes dignity is the only possession that stays yours unless you give it away.
The path down from the trash mounds is narrow and treacherous. You know where the glass is thickest, where the mud hides nails, where older boys sometimes wait to snatch sacks from children smaller than themselves. Today your eyes are not searching for metal or plastic. They are scanning for witnesses.
Three men with hooked poles are working near the refrigerator carcasses. One of them notices you and squints.
“Ximena!” he calls. “You found yourself a drunk?”
You do not answer.
The man beside you lifts his head at the sound but says nothing. His face is pale beneath the blood. You can feel heat coming off him now. Not healthy warmth. Fever rising. Shock, maybe. Injury. You do not know the proper adult word for what is happening to his body, only that it feels urgent and wrong.
