Manuel sat still, the pack trembling in his palm. Medication — but not the kind he feared.
As his eyes scanned the label, a whisper of recognition tightened his chest.
He had seen those same pills on his wife’s bedside table once, long ago, back when hospitals and goodbyes filled his days.
He didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, he walked straight into the school office and asked to speak with the counselor. His voice was gentle but firm — the kind that carries worry, not accusations.
“I think someone needs help,” he said, placing the pills on the desk.
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