The yellowish light from the hanging spotlight hit his face.
He was just over thirty. Thin. With a stubble beard. His soaked shirt clung to his body. He smelled of cheap alcohol, wet streets, and pent-up rage.
Lucía let go of Alejandro’s hand only to run towards the cardboard box where the twins were.
Not to hug them.
To cover them.
As if that man were more dangerous than hunger.
“I told you not to come in late,” he muttered, staring at the girl. “Where did you go, you little brat?”
Alejandro didn’t move.
“The ambulance is on its way,” he said coldly.
The man looked him up and down, surprised to find someone like that in that room.
Then he looked at the bed.
Then the cans.
And for an instant, barely an instant, something like fear appeared on his face.
“Who the hell are you?” he spat.
—Someone who called for help when they saw that no one else was doing it here.
The man scoffed, but his sneer fell flat.
“We didn’t need help. My wife is just tired.”
Lucia trembled.
“That’s not true,” she whispered from the corner. “Mom’s been like this for two days…”
The man spun around.
-Be quiet!
The scream made the babies cry even louder.
Alejandro stepped forward.
He didn’t raise his voice.
But something in her gaze changed.
He became curt.
Lethal.
—Don’t yell at him again.
The other one clenched his jaw.
He possessed the kind of violence that doesn’t always erupt with blows. Sometimes it begins with a look. With the way he invades someone’s space. With the certainty that others have already learned to fear him.
—It’s my house. My wife. My children. A stranger isn’t going to tell me what to do.
