“Call Cárdenas. Don’t wait.”
Meanwhile, Elena and Mariana returned to the house. In Diego’s bedroom, they found his wallet on the nightstand, his keys next to a photo of Lucía dressed as an Adelita at a school festival, and several receipts for small loans.
On the kitchen calendar were notes written in weary handwriting:
“Double shift.”
“Lucía’s appointment.”
“Buy medicine.”
“Pay the electricity bill.”
“Call the insurance company again.”
Mariana felt embarrassed for all the comments she had read that morning. This house didn’t tell the story of abandonment. It told the story of someone trying to hold onto their world with empty hands.
As they were leaving, Don Eusebio, an elderly neighbor, approached under a broken umbrella.
“I saw Diego that afternoon,” he said softly. “He was running to the pharmacy, soaking wet.” She yelled at me that the
