Carlos kicked the door down just as the plaster cast finished opening.

He stormed in, furious, ready to separate Rosa from her son, but he froze in the middle of the room. The smell hit him first. Then he saw Mateo’s arm.

It wasn’t just a simple irritation. Beneath the plaster was a sticky, dark mixture, laced with traces of honey, inflamed skin, and tiny red ants scurrying between the inner bandage. A few white larvae writhed in the most damaged area. Mateo hadn’t made this up. He wasn’t crazy. They were slowly devouring him beneath a white prison they all called “treatment.”

Carlos put a hand to his mouth and fell to his knees.

—No… no, son… forgive me…

Rosa, crying with rage, kicked the open piece of plaster towards him.

“Look at him closely, sir! That’s what was driving him crazy! And you were going to send him to a mental hospital!”

Carlos couldn’t answer. He picked up Mateo as best he could and ran to the bathroom. Under the stream of warm water, he carefully cleaned his arm while repeating over and over:

—Forgive me, champ. Forgive me. Dad was an idiot.

Mateo barely sobbed. He was too exhausted to speak.

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