He's always done that. Always will.
"Yeah," I say. "I trust you."
"Then go be with her. Keep her close. I'll call when I have something." He holds my eyes. "Do not turn yourself in. You understand me?"
"Okay." I pull at my hair, grounding myself. "Don't make me regret this."
He nods once. "Never."
My phone rings before I've cleared the block. Hospital number on the dash.
I answer it, knuckles white on the wheel.
"Mr. Mendez." The nurse's voice is calm and professional in the way that precedes bad news. "Vitals are stable, but her kidney function is dropping. Acute failure setting in. She'll need dialysis within the week."
The words land like a sledgehammer in a hollow room.
"Okay. What does that mean for us right now?"
"We're still working with insurance on authorization. We should have more information by morning. Your mother is very spirited — it's important she stays in good spirits."
I end the call and sit at a red light and slam both hands into the wheel. The horn blares into the empty street. I let it. "FUCK."
The rage that moves through me has nowhere useful to go. Rage at the medication. At the insurance company. At myself for not catching it sooner. Ma's face swims up — pale and worn, the woman who raised me on nothing but stubbornness and Cuban coffee, now hooked to machines in a hospital room.
I text Raul one-handed:
Ma's kidneys failing. Dialysis soon. NO MORE OF THOSE MEDS. Fix this NOW.
Then I drive to the storage unit.
She's curled on the couch with a paperback when I push through the door, legs tucked under her, hair loose from its bun with a few strands falling across her cheek. She's changed out of the soiled clothes into an oversized ripped t-shirt from one of the old boxes, one shoulder slipped down to expose her collarbone, the hem riding high on her thighs. The room smells like her.
She looks like a girl reading on a couch anywhere in the world.
The sight does something to my chest I wasn't prepared for.
I forgot to chain her back up when I left. I register that and don't move to fix it.
"What's with the dramatic entrance?" she asks, folding the page corner and setting the book down. Her eyes move over me the way they do, sharp and already reading past whatever I'm showing on the surface.
"It's Ma." I drop onto the couch beside her, elbows on my knees. "She needs dialysis. Kidneys are failing."
She's quiet for a moment. Then her face drains. "Plex?"
I nod. My throat is too tight for words.
"DJ." Her hand lands soft on my arm, hovering first like she's asking permission. "I'm so sorry." A pause. "You did something right, you know. Stopping him."
I look at her hand. Cover it with mine.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Maybe."
The silence stretches, but it's not empty. It's thick, heavy with everything we're not saying. Her hand stays warm under mine, fingers curling slightly like she's anchoring me too.
I become aware of her breath first — soft, even, brushing against my shoulder where she's shifted closer. The faint rise and fall of her chest, the way her tank top clings just a little from the humid air. My own breathing slows to match hers without me realizing it, the room narrowing to the space between us.
She smells like sweat and a hint of vanilla still lingering. But there's something sweeter underneath, something that's just her. My eyes drop to the curve of her collarbone, still flushed pink from earlier, then lower to where her thighs press together under the book she abandoned.
