Day 29. 11:00 PM.
They were coming tomorrow at 10:00 AM. That was the deadline. The thirty-day mark where the insurance cleared and the “ethical” withdrawal of life support could be signed.
I had eleven hours to live.
I focused everything—every memory, every ounce of rage, every spark of love for my stolen daughters—into my right index finger.
Move, I commanded.
Nothing.
Move, damn you. For Esperanza. For the secret one.
I thought of Karla wearing my dress. I thought of Teresa selling my baby. I thought of Andrés checking his phone while I died.
The rage heated my blood. It traveled down my shoulder, through my elbow, into my wrist.
My finger twitched.
It was tiny. A flutter. But Nurse Elena was there, adjusting my drip.
She froze. “Did you…?”
I did it again. A clear, deliberate tap against the sheet.
Elena gasped. She leaned in close, her face inches from mine. “Lucía? Can you hear me?”
I couldn’t speak. Not yet. The tube was still in my throat. But I focused on my eyelids. Heavy as lead doors.
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