Antonio was pacing up and down in the living room, fist clenching and unclenching, sometimes raised as though he wanted to hit something—anything to soothe his frustration.

Camila had settled on the couch right beside Abuelo's wheelchair; his feet kept tapping onto the floor like it could somehow summon Alberto from wherever he was.

And then there's Ernesto. On the phone, yelling, tie askew, jacket sprawled on the couch, his hair a mess as he had run a hand through it a few times.

Ernesto slammed his fist on the table.

"I don't give a fuck if you think it's 'too early' or 'overreacting,' Mateo. Mija is GONE! They reported...