He went out into the hallway and confronted Carlos.
—Sir, he has a fever. He smells bad. This isn’t psychological. Take him to the emergency room.
Carlos had the phone in his hand. On the table were admission papers for a private psychiatric clinic in Santa Fe. Lorena was next to him, stroking his shoulder.
“Rosa, you don’t understand,” said Carlos, devastated. “Last night he almost broke his arm against the wall. He says imaginary things are biting him.”
“They’re not imaginary,” Rosa insisted. “I saw an ant go into the plaster.”
Lorena let out a tired sigh.
“For God’s sake, Rosa. An ant doesn’t cause a crisis like this. Besides, if they take him to any hospital and see those wounds, they’re going to accuse Carlos of negligence. Do you want him to be arrested?”
Carlos lowered his gaze. That phrase paralyzed him.
Lorena knew exactly where to hit. She had repeated to him for days that Mateo could destroy her reputation, her job, her life. She told him that the boy was jealous, that he was self-harming to blame her, that he needed to be locked up and sedated.
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