Not the kind that arrives all at once, loud and theatrical.
The kind that has been building for days in the ribs, in the back of the throat, in the trembling hand that keeps dialing a phone that stays dark no matter how many times you whisper, Pick up, baby, pick up. The kind a mother knows before facts catch up. The kind that rides beside you on a long bus into the city while everyone else sleeps with cheap blankets over their faces and you sit upright, food cooling in a cloth bag on your lap, counting every possible disaster like prayer beads.
When the young woman from the next room unlocks Miguel’s door and tells you to stay calm, you already know calm has left the building.
Then the smell hits.
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