The embarrassment hit Mateo suddenly. His clothes were muddy, his shoes filthy, and the idea of sitting inside that pristine vehicle made him shrink inward. “Thank you, but I think it is better if I walk.”
Cyrus did not push him. He helped his mother into the car, but before closing the door, the older woman clasped Mateo’s hand.
“You stopped when others did not. Remember that.”
He watched them drive away, then continued running, though every step felt heavier than the last.
By the time he entered the lobby of the corporate tower, he looked like a man who had crawled out from under the storm itself. The security guard eyed him with skepticism before reluctantly allowing him through. Mateo hurried to the reception desk.
“I am here for the analyst interview. Mateo Rios,” he said, his voice strained.
The receptionist checked her screen. “I am sorry, but the manager has already moved on to the next applicant. You arrived too late.”
He swallowed, the sting of defeat clawing at his throat. “I helped someone who collapsed on the street. If I could just explain…”
“I understand,” she interrupted politely, “but the decision is final.”