I put on my warehouse jacket — the one I work in. I didn’t change. In the mirror I saw stubble, tired eyes, oil stains on my sleeve. Let them see it. An ordinary laborer. Easier to intimidate.
The school smelled of cafeteria food and disinfectant. The security guard barely looked up from his newspaper. I climbed the stairs two at a time.
The door to B205 was half open.
Alejandro stood by the board, head lowered. His backpack had been dumped out on the floor, notebooks scattered, pencil case open. The apple I’d given him that morning lay bruised beside a desk.
More than twenty students sat in silence. Some looked frightened. Others curious.
Behind the desk stood Mrs. Carmen López — broad-shouldered, immaculate hair, heavy rings on her fingers.
“Finally,” she said without rising. “Take a look at your son.”
I walked to Alejandro and placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched.
“Dad, I didn’t take anything,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said aloud. “Pick up your things.”
“Don’t touch anything!” she slammed her palm on the desk.
“They’re evidence! Five one-hundred-euro bills disappeared from my bag. I stepped into the principal’s office briefly. My bag was here.