“Exactly like that,” I agreed, marveling at how children could often distill complex moral situations to their essence.
Maria’s building was a modest three-story walk up on a street lined with similar structures. Their facades brightened by window boxes and cultural touches that transformed institutional architecture into homes. The neighborhood hummed with evening life, families chatting on stoops, music drifting from open windows, the scent of various cuisines mingling in the air.
Maria answered her door with surprise that quickly shifted to concern as she took in our appearance and the urgency in my eyes.
“Helena, what brings you here so late? And with the little one, too.”
“Maria, I need a favor,” I said quietly. “We need a place to stay tonight, somewhere no one would think to look for us. and I need to borrow your laptop if possible.”
To her credit, Maria asked no questions beyond what was necessary. Within 20 minutes, we were settled in a small but clean studio apartment on the third floor, typically used for visiting relatives. She brought us a laptop, some basic toiletries, and a bag of food from her own kitchen.
“Whatever trouble you’re in, Helena, you know you
