Canela’s rope dragged across the floor, leaving a thin reddish line from her injured paws.
Miguel looked at that line, then at Lupita, then at the door trembling under another knock.
He could lie.
He could say the sound came from the street, apologize, promise to keep quiet, and protect their apartment.
Or he could open the door and let the consequences enter with Don Ernesto’s shoes.
Lupita did not tell him what to do.
That silence hurt more than anger.
Miguel opened the door only halfway.
Don Ernesto stood there in his undershirt, one hand gripping his keys, his eyes already looking past Miguel’s shoulder.
“I knew it,” he said. “You brought a dog in here.”
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