“Inside,” she says.
The room grows smaller with him in it.
There is one bed, one narrow sofa, a table, two chairs, a hot plate, and a wooden crate you use as both step stool and storage. The stranger almost folds in half trying not to knock things over. Candelaria points to the sofa.
“Sit before you fall.”
He lowers himself with a grimace, one hand braced against the wall. Up close in the dim light, he looks worse than he did outside. The cut at his forehead has clotted but not cleanly. One cheek is bruising dark beneath the dirt. His lower lip is split. His right forearm is swelling at an angle that makes your stomach twist.
Your grandmother shuts the door, slides the bolt back, and turns to you.
“Water. Clean cloth. The blue tin.”
You obey at once.
That is how most evenings work when sickness or crisis enters a poor house. No one wastes time on panic because panic solves nothing and uses up breath you may need later. You fetch the bucket, the rag, the little rusted tin where she keeps alcohol, old bandages, and the last few tablets from medicines she stretches like prayers.
The man watches her with an expression you do not understand at first.
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