Mateo turns away. “I said I don’t want to talk to him.”
Joaquín lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry, young sir.”
The rain keeps falling. Santiago lets out a tiny complaint and shifts against your chest, hungry now, probably cold too. Your own blouse is soaked through. You know you should leave. You know this family is none of your business. You know the smart thing would be to nod once, wish them well, and disappear back into the evening before the world remembers exactly who belongs to which side of the tinted glass.
Instead, because your mouth often moves before caution can catch it, you look at Mateo and say, “Maybe everybody can stop talking like they’re in court for one minute.”
The silence that follows is so complete you almost regret breathing.
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