I dressed like someone on autopilot. Navy scrub pants that had seen better days, plain white tee underneath, the same faded grey hoodie from yesterday pulled over everything. Hair in a low, messy ponytail that didn't even pretend to be neat. No makeup. No jewelry. Just sneakers and the small crossbody bag slung across my chest like armor.

The bus ride was quiet inside my head. No racing thoughts. No replaying last night, or yesterday's hospital hallway, or Mateo's voice. I just stared out the window at grey buildings sliding past, let the engine rumble up through my bones, and breathed. Worrying wouldn't change the mess. It never had.

When...