Then the cast cracks.
Elvira pries it open.
For one second, nobody moves.
Then she gasps.
You see red first.
Not blood exactly.
Irritated skin.
Swelling.
Dark spots.
Small moving bodies.
Ants.
Dozens of them, trapped beneath the cast, crawling through sticky brown residue smeared along the inner padding. Some are dead. Some are alive. Some disappear into folds of gauze where the skin has been rubbed raw.
Your vision narrows.
Diego’s screams become distant.
Elvira shouts for towels, water, alcohol, gloves.
You cannot move.
Because your son was telling the truth.
Your son was telling the truth.
Your son begged you to cut off his arm because something was literally eating at him under the cast.
And you tied him to the bed.
Elvira slaps your arm.
“Move, Alejandro!”
That brings you back.
You run for water.
You call the ambulance.
You call the orthopedic surgeon.
You call emergency services and can barely speak.
“My son,” you say. “His cast. There are insects inside. Infection risk. He needs help now.”
Valeria backs toward the hallway.
You see her.
“Elvira,” you say without looking away, “lock the front door.”
Valeria freezes.
“What?”
You step toward her.
“Where are you going?”
She laughs, but it is thin. “To get dressed. We need to go to the hospital.”
“No.”
Her face changes.
You have seen Valeria angry before.
