The words land harder than the thunder.
You feel them in your ribs, because children do not say things like that casually. Not when they are wet and hungry and shaking. Not when the man standing in front of them owns buildings and headlines and more money than your whole neighborhood has probably seen in one place. A child only says I didn’t want to go home when home has become a place that feels emptier than the street.
Ricardo hears it too. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens.
The driver, a broad man in his fifties with rain collecting on his gray hair, approaches from the corner where he must have parked the car. He looks relieved to see Mateo alive and also terrified to be in trouble.
“Sir,” he says carefully.
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