You do not expect your life to split open beneath an overpass in the middle of Mexico City.
You expect noise. Heat. Irritation. A delayed meeting. Your phone vibrating with numbers large enough to move markets and executives who panic if you go silent for more than five minutes. You expect the usual machinery of power, the polished version of yourself that has learned how to move through the world without letting it touch you too deeply.
Then your daughter tightens her fingers around your hand and says, “Dad… look at her wrist.”
At first you think Camila is doing what she has always done, noticing the parts of the world other people step over. She notices stray dogs trembling beneath parked cars. She notices children selling gum at stoplights while tourists look away. She notices old women with tired eyes sitting against filthy concrete pillars as if the city has slowly tried to absorb them and failed.
