“Ximena!” he calls. “You found yourself a drunk?”
You do not answer.
The man beside you lifts his head at the sound but says nothing. His face is pale beneath the blood. You can feel heat coming off him now. Not healthy warmth. Fever rising. Shock, maybe. Injury. You do not know the proper adult word for what is happening to his body, only that it feels urgent and wrong.
Another voice whistles from farther off.
“Careful, niña. Men like that cost money.”
A few laughs follow.
Your grip tightens. People in the dump laugh at the edge of violence the way other people laugh at television jokes. Not because it is funny. Because if you do not make small sounds around danger, it grows too large to stand.
The stranger stumbles again. This time he nearly pulls you down.
Leave a Comment