“I can take the metro.”
“You could,” Fernando said. “But you shouldn’t.”
Something in his tone carried no command, only plain recognition of her exhaustion, and that made refusing harder than if he had insisted.
The car arrived at eight, black and silent, absurd against the cracked curb outside her building.
The driver opened the door without glancing at the neighbors pretending not to watch from behind curtains and half-open gates.
Valeria kept her chin lifted as she entered, though heat rose to her face.
During the ride to Santa Fe, the city changed in layers: tangled wires, crowded storefronts, gray overpasses, then glass towers reflecting a sky still deciding whether to rain.
Fernando was waiting in the hospital lobby in a charcoal coat, holding two coffees and looking like a man who had learned not to waste movement.
He offered her one without asking how she took it. It was already sweet, already lightened with milk.
“You remembered?” she said.
He shrugged faintly. “On the bus, you kept grimacing but still drank the coffee your friend gave you. People reveal habits when they’re trying to stay composed.”
