“It’s nothing you need to worry about, señora.”
“That envelope has my company’s seal on it.”
He exhales once, slow and defeated, then shifts the baby again. “It’s a notice,” he says. “They’re buying the block. Or trying to. The landlord says we have sixty days, maybe less. Some neighbors already left because the rent doubled. Some are fighting, but…” He gives a small, humorless shrug. “People like us do not usually win long fights.”
The girl appears in the doorway before you can respond.
She is maybe eleven, thin as a bookmark, with a faded yellow inhaler in one hand and a workbook tucked under the other arm. Her eyes are enormous, fever-bright, and fiercely observant. She takes one look at your suit, your heels, your watch that costs more than this house, and says, “You’re the lady from the office.”
