“They’ll take who?” Miguel asked.
Sofía looked toward the back of the room.
On the bed, wrapped in a white towel, was a newborn baby girl, sleeping in shallow little breaths.
Lupita moved before Miguel could speak, not rushing, but with the instinctive care of someone approaching fragile glass.
The baby was warm, but the room was not.
There were empty water bottles near the bed, a hospital bag, and receipts scattered beside a nearly dead phone.
Sofía’s hospital bracelet was gone from her wrist, and Miguel understood where the one in his pocket belonged.
“I left because they said my baby wasn’t safe with me,” Sofía whispered, watching Lupita touch the baby’s blanket.
“Who said that?” Miguel asked.
Sofía stared at the floor.
“My mother. The doctor. The social worker. Maybe all of them were right.”
Lupita turned sharply, but she did not interrupt.
Sofía rubbed Canela’s ear with trembling fingers, the same motion repeated as if it kept her from falling apart.
“I panicked,” she said. “I thought if I left, I could prove I could take care of her.”
Miguel looked at the newborn, the tired mother, the dog who had dragged her own puppies toward help.
