The stairwell door looked like part of the wall.
Sarah ran her fingers along the seam until they found the recessed latch, cold against her skin. Her hand trembled as she pressed it. The latch gave with a small, tired sound, and the door opened inward.
A thin strip of light rose from below, amber and low, tracing the edge of her boots and climbing her legs as she started down. The air smelled of dust and oil, and something sweeter underneath.
She took the steps slowly, her palm sliding along the concrete wall. Ghost’s weight pulled at one shoulder, her bag at the other. The light grew warmer near the bottom, the generator’s hum rising to meet her — and under it, a smaller sound. A child’s voice.
“Rojo,” Sofia was saying. Then, patient, correcting: “No. Roh-ho.”
Sarah stopped a few steps from the bottom, where the wall still hid her.
“Roe-ho,” George echoed, getting it wrong. Sofia laughed, the sound bright in the small space.
Another crayon, held up. “Azul.”
“Azul.” That one he managed.
“Sí! Bueno.” A small hand pawing through the box, choosing the next. The two of them bent over the coloring book at the dinette table, George hunched onto a crate too low for him, his cane hooked on the table edge. Sofia held up a yellow one, triumphant. "Amarillo."
“Amar—” George started, and looked up.
He stared like he was waiting for her to not be real.
Sofia’s eyes stayed on him, waiting for the rest of the word. When it didn’t come, she followed his look to the stairs.
The crayon lowered in her hand. Something in the room had changed, and she felt it without understanding it.
Then — across the room, half in shadow where the lamp didn’t reach — Ana.
Her eyes were searching Sarah. Then they moved to the empty space behind her.
Ana looked back at her.
Sarah shook her head once.
Ana’s breath went out. She closed the distance and folded against Sarah without a word — the motion slow and heavy, like falling.
They stood there, holding each other, Ana’s grip tightening and easing, tightening again.
A small hand found Ana’s forearm. Sofia had come to them, soundless, and stood looking up at the two of them. She pulled, gently, at her mother’s wrist.
“Where’s Papá?”
Ana’s mouth opened. Nothing came. Her arms only tightened around Sarah.
Sarah knelt — slow, her knees creaking in protest — down to the child’s level, and brushed the hair back from her forehead.
“He had to go help someone else, niñita.”
Sofia blinked, nodding slowly. She leaned into her mother’s side and went still.
Sarah stayed crouched, watching her, the crayon still locked in her fist. She reached for the bag at her side and unzipped it halfway. The purple elephant lay near the top. She lifted it out, smoothing one ear with her thumb, and placed it in Sofia’s arms.
“You dropped this,” she whispered.
Sofia’s fingers closed around it. She drew it to her chest without looking up.
Across the room, George pushed himself to his feet. The cane steadied him. He shuffled toward her, each step deliberate.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
Sarah looked up at him — the lined face, the bloodshot eyes that hadn’t softened in years. She shook her head.
He opened his arms.
The embrace held, though neither quite fit. His breath rasped near her temple; hers came in shallow bursts. When he spoke, his voice was low, matter-of-fact.
“You’re a fugitive now, Angel. You’re gonna carry that the rest of your days.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. Let him see her.
After a while, she pulled back.
She crossed to the table and leaned Ghost against the wall.
Her thumb found the painted insignia on the magazine. Traced the outline of it, once.
Then she stepped back.
Set her bag down and unzipped it.
Mark’s cigarettes sat on top. She lifted them out and held them in her hands.
Stared at them for a long moment.
Then she crushed them in her fist and let go.