“I know.”
“And now there is a hospital bracelet, and maybe a missing baby, and maybe nothing we can fix.”
Miguel looked at her.
The anniversary flowers he had not bought seemed suddenly small, but not unimportant.
This was how he always failed her, not through one big betrayal, but through little absences that piled up quietly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Lupita’s eyes filled, but she did not let the tears fall.
“For tonight or for every night you thought apologizing later was enough?”
Miguel had no answer that would not sound poor.
Canela shifted, and the rope around her neck tightened against the cardboard.
Lupita noticed it first.
“Wait,” she said.
She moved closer, slowly, with the scissors from the kitchen drawer in one hand.
Canela growled, but she was too exhausted to rise.
“I’m not hurting you,” Lupita whispered. “I’m only taking this off.”
Miguel held his breath.
The scissors slid under the rope.
For one second, time stretched thin.
The building noises faded.
The puppy’s breathing, Lupita’s fingers, Canela’s fixed eyes, all of it seemed to float in one quiet place.
Then the rope snapped.
Canela flinched as if pain had answered before relief could arrive.
