"There is nothing else," Carmen said. "Hospital. Grocery shifts. Meetings. The sober house has a curfew. My life is boring on purpose. Boring is how I stay alive."
Elena believed her enough to get in the car. Belief, she noted, was not the same as trust. Belief was a temporary bridge made of testing.
They drove to Philadelphia that same afternoon.
Marco met them in the hospital parking garage after arranging a neighbor to pick Sofia up from school. He looked at Elena first, searching her face for the verdict of the morning. Elena gave him a small nod that meant not yet, but not never. Then she looked at Carmen, and the three of them walked into the building together like people rehearsing a family.
Ricardo Vega was smaller than Elena remembered. Illness does that—shrinks the people who once seemed architectural. His hair was white where it had been salt-and-pepper. His hands lay on the blanket like careful tools put away for the night. When he opened his eyes and saw Elena, the smile that arrived was so complete it made her knees weak.
"Mi vida," he whispered. "You came."
Elena took his hand. It was cool and dry. She kissed his forehead the way she had when she was small and he had fevers from working too hard in the sun. Carmen stood on the other side of the bed. Marco waited by the window, giving them the room without leaving it.