“He was getting colder,” Lupita says, still looking at Nico. “I heard him crying.”
Your spine tightens.
Nico has not cried in hours. He has barely moved. The medications keep him hovering in that terrible place between sleep and suffering where the body still fights but the face no longer knows how to ask for help. Yet there is something in the girl’s tone that unsettles you. Not performance. Not childish fantasy. Certainty.
The nurse starts guiding her toward the door.
Lupita twists just enough to say one more thing.
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