Sweet.
Rotten.
Wrong.
Your knees almost buckle.
“Elvira,” you whisper.
She is already at the nightstand, pulling out scissors, towels, and the small emergency kit she keeps for everything from fevers to scraped knees.
“We need a doctor,” you say.
“We need the cast open first.”
“No. We can’t. If the bone—”
“If we wait,” Elvira says, eyes blazing, “there may not be a child to save.”
That shuts you up.
Diego stirs.
“Daddy?” he whispers.
You rush to him and unfasten the belt with trembling hands.
His left wrist is red where the leather pressed against it.
The sight destroys you.
“Diego, I’m here.”
He tries to pull away.
From you.
Not from the cast.
From you.
That hurts more than any accusation.
“Elvira,” he whimpers. “Please. Please.”
The nanny bends over him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.
“I’m here, mi niño. I’m going to help you.”
You reach for your phone.
Valeria appears in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
Her voice is sharp now.
Not sweet.
Not concerned.
Sharp.
