The next morning, Mateo no longer had the strength to scream. That was what frightened Rosa the most.
She found him staring at the ceiling, his lips parched and his forehead burning. His casted arm rested on the sheet, but his fingers were swollen and trembling. The boy looked smaller than ever.
—Nana… —she whispered—. Go get the big bread knife.
Rosa leaned forward, thinking she hadn’t heard correctly.
—What did you say, my child?
Mateo looked at her with a clarity that froze her blood.
—Cut off my arm. I don’t want it anymore. I promise I won’t scream.
Rosa had to cover her mouth to keep from crying. No child would ask for something like that as a tantrum. No child would rather lose an arm than continue wearing a cast, unless something terrible was happening underneath.
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