You go back to the sunroom.
Dolores lies as she did before, still as prayer, eyes closed. You say her name once. Nothing. You say it again, quieter. Still nothing. Her pulse is steady. Her breathing is slow. If not for the bruise-colored force with which she had grabbed your wrist, you might have convinced yourself exhaustion invented the whole exchange.
But you know what you heard.
That night you do not call Carlos.
Instead, you text him something ordinary about medication times and tell him his mother had a quiet day. He answers with a thumbs-up and a reminder not to forget the eleven p.m. dose. You read the message five times, searching for anything hidden inside its plainness. There is nothing there but the cold efficiency of a man who thinks logistics are a substitute for care.
