She hesitated.
That hesitation told me more than an answer could have.
“Sofia.”
“They said there’s rice in the kitchen.”
“Anything else?”
“Some beans.”
I glanced at the washing machine again.
“Why were you washing clothes at this hour?”
“Patricia said everything had to be clean before they came home. She said if I didn’t finish, I’d regret it.”
“What did she mean by that?”
Sofia pulled down her sleeves.
It was a small movement, but I noticed it immediately.
For the first time since entering the house, I looked at her arms instead of her face.
“Sofia, look at me.”
She didn’t.
“Please, Dad. I’m tired.”
“Then we’ll get you some sleep. But first, I need to ask you something.”
I lowered my voice.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
I waited.
She swallowed.
“I’m fine.”
I had spent years learning to recognize trouble before it became a disaster. A driver could tell when an engine was failing long before smoke appeared. A sudden vibration, an unfamiliar sound, a change in the steering—small warnings mattered.
