Emilio points inside.
The clinic smells like bleach, tired bodies, and overheated wiring. In a curtained cubicle near the back, Sofia lies on a narrow exam bed, too pale against the white pillow. Up close, she looks younger. Her lip is split at one corner. There is a fading bruise above her wrist, yellowing at the edges like old fruit. Miguel’s stomach knots.
A doctor with deep shadows under his eyes glances between father and son. “Are you family?”
“No,” Miguel says.
“Yes,” Emilio says at the same time.
The doctor sighs in the way of professionals who have seen every category of chaos. “She’s dehydrated, undernourished, and has likely been rationing medication she should be taking regularly. We’re stabilizing her, but she needs a safer environment than wherever she came from.”
Miguel turns to Emilio very slowly. “What medication?”
Emilio answers in a whisper. “Insulin.”
The room seems to lose air.
Miguel looks back at Sofia, at the sharpness of her collarbones, at the old backpack under the chair, at the child-sized effort it must have taken to survive this long with so little. The indignation that has been simmering in him all week surges now into something molten and focused.
“Where are her parents?” he asks.
Sofia opens her eyes before anyone else can answer.
They are large, dark, and instantly alert with the kind of fear that has learned to wake faster than the body. She tries to sit up. Emilio moves to her side.
“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s just my dad.”
Her gaze flicks to Miguel, taking in the suit, the watch, the authority clinging to him like expensive cologne. Then she recoils.
“No,” she says hoarsely. “No police. No social worker. Please.”
