Román didn't look up. He remained silent. The head of security—Mauricio Ortega, fifty-two years old, former police officer, two grown daughters—stayed for a few minutes, his cap in his hands, and then left slowly, leaving the air less dense.

Isabella's phone vibrated in her pocket. She took it out without thinking. On the screen was a name that always made Isabella smile: Eva, her lifelong friend. The time matched their ritual half-hour appointment. Roman held the phone for a few seconds. He looked at the contact as if looking at a lighted window across the street. He didn't answer. He put the phone back in his pocket, feeling as if he had closed a door he couldn't open.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

***

In a state that ranged from consciousness to unconsciousness, I heard:

"Isabella, we're going to put you to sleep for a little while," said a kind female voice. "We need your body to rest so we can work for you."

I want to say "thank you." The words won't come out, a tear rolls down my ch