“Hang on, son,” he whispered. “Your dad is here.”
The sound of the machinery mingled with the siren. Every curve seemed like a threat. Every traffic light added another second between Ana Clara’s death and the possibility of saving her son.
At the hospital, the team was already waiting. Doctors, nurses, and obstetricians whisked Ana Clara down the corridor at a speed that left no room for questions. Marcos tried to follow, but they stopped him at the door of the surgical center.
—Sir, you must wait here.
“I can’t lose them both,” he said, almost voiceless. “I’ve already lost her. I can’t lose him too.”
A nurse held his arm. She didn’t promise miracles. She just told him they would do everything they could. For Marcos, that was the cruellest and most necessary phrase of the night.
The door closed.
The hallway smelled of disinfectant, stale coffee, and damp fabric. Marcos was still wearing his crematorium suit, wrinkled and stained by the incense. He sat down, stood up, walked around, and sat down again.
