“Mister, why are you crying?”
The voice was small, curious, and terribly ill-timed. Fernando startled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, furious at being caught in his moment of greatest weakness. He spun his chair around to find a pair of large, dark eyes looking at him without fear—only overwhelming innocence. It was Sergio, the six-year-old son of Rosa, one of the women who cleaned the mansion. The boy held a toy truck and stared at Fernando as if he were a riddle that needed solving.
“Go play, kid,” Fernando growled, trying to pull on his armor of coldness. “It’s none of your business.”
But Sergio didn’t budge. He took a step forward, ignoring the hostile tone. “My mama says people cry when their hearts hurt or when they have an ouchie. Did you fall down?”
The simplicity of the question disarmed him. Fernando’s anger dissipated, replaced by a profound exhaustion. “Something like that,” he sighed, surrendering. “I’m crying because I’ll never walk again, kid. My legs don’t work anymore. I’m never getting out of this chair.”