Two police officers were outside. As soon as I saw their faces, my body understood before my mind.
—Are you Angélica Herrera?
I don’t remember answering. I remember the uniform, the smell of my own kitchen, the table set for three. They told me that a drunk driver had run a stop sign and hit Joaquín’s truck on the driver’s side.
—Just tell me if they’re alive —I whispered.
The officer looked down.
—Her husband died at the scene. His son is alive, but is in surgery. His condition is critical.
The world was not broken by noise. It went out.
At the hospital, Dr. Medrano explained words to me that no mother should learn: severe head trauma, induced coma, brain inflammation. Mateo seemed smaller than ever, connected to machines, with a swollen face and a bandaged head. I took his hand and promised him I wouldn’t leave him.
