By Michael Reed • February 2, 2026 • Share
Thomas didn’t cuff Esteban that day. Not because there was no reason, not because the anger would have gone away. It was because when the man finished talking, he was shrunk about himself, crying like an old boy, repeating over and over again: – I didn’t want to hurt him… I swear… I didn’t want to… Thomas had seen real monsters. Men who did not doubt, who enjoyed. Esteban wasn’t that. But he wasn’t innocent either. And in the middle of those two things was Lili, fighting to live in a hospital bed.
“He will accompany me,” said Thomas at the end. He’s not under arrest yet. But don’t move out of town. Esteban nodded without lifting his face.
The hospital smelled of disinfectant and fear. Mariana, from the DIF, was waiting in the room with a fuck so thick that she seemed to weigh more than her body. “This is going to get ugly,” he said to Thomas quietly. There are already superiors asking. There are already lawyers from the hospital. And there’s already a word floating that no one means out loud.
– Tell her. – Institutional neglect.
Thomas looked at the pediatric intensive therapy door. Behind that glass was a girl who had drawn her pain for months while adults did what they best to do: look the other way.
Dr. Velázquez left again. This time I was in no hurry. It brought something worse: decision. “We need to operate,” he said. Not today. Now.
“What is it?” asked Thomas.
– A massive teratoma. Tumors that form from cells that should not be activated. It can generate teeth, hair, bone… even structures that look like organs. In adults it’s weird. In a girl… it’s almost impossible.
– What about the baby? The doctor closed her eyes for a second. – Lili’s body began to behave like something had to be born. Contractions, internal pressure. His mind sought an explanation. Someone gave it to him.
Thomas thought about the drawings. In the circle growing. In the phrase, “Don’t take me. It’s secret.” “If you don’t operate…” he said.
– Die.
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