Minutes later, Marisol Vega stood before them. Mid-thirties, dark braided hair, worn jeans, simple blouse. Her hands showed years of work. Her eyes held something sharp and steady.
“I’m Marisol Vega,” she said. “Pediatric nurse. From La Guerrero.”
Lucía scoffed. “From there?”
Marisol didn’t flinch. “That place taught me how to recognize fear and pain. Your child isn’t misbehaving. He’s suffering.”
Alejandro stood. “Every doctor says he’s fine.”
“May I see him?” Marisol asked. “Pain doesn’t wait for morning.”
They climbed four floors, the crying growing louder. Tomás lay curled on the floor of a room filled with expensive toys, clutching his head.
Marisol knelt beside him. “May I touch your head, campeón?”
Tomás nodded weakly.
She examined his scalp carefully. Then she froze.
“I need strong light,” she said. “And something to magnify.”
Under the lamp, her face drained of color.
“There are metal fragments in his scalp,” she said quietly. “Tiny needles. This wasn’t an accident.”
Lucía gasped. “That’s impossible.”
“MRIs don’t catch this,” Marisol replied. “Someone did this on purpose.”
Alejandro felt the room tilt. “In my house?”