His head hits the ground first.

Raphael looks up, eyes watering, blood pooling in his mouth, bruised throat shuddering as it dilates with each trembling inhale-exhale.

Sébastien. He has to get away, he thinks, tears refracting the light from the doorway into thousands of glittering orange shards, Sébastien’s voice carrying beneath the ringing in Rapha’s ears, low and flaming.

He places his hands into the cool, damp earth and pushes himself to his knees, beginning to crawl.

The first thing Sara notices is how little clothes Raphael is wearing. The second is the blood.

“Rapha?” She calls out, flinging open her window as the dog barks at his return. “What happened?”

Rapha says nothing, grasping the doorframe to catch himself as he struggles to stand. Lupe, growls, teeth yellowing, snapping and straining against his leash.

Sara meets him on the porch, raising a hand, silencing Lupe, who opens his mouth and finds himself barkless. She places her arm around Raphael, and carries him inside, to where the stove is still warm, placing him on the chair in the corner.

“Sara…” he whispers, bringing his head close to the cup of warm milk on the table befire him, not quite trusting his arms to not give out enough to bring it to his lips. “I’m sorry.”

She sighs from the kitchen, preparing a washbasin of cool water and antiseptic. “It’s not your fault, Rapha. Blanca should have come with you.”

Raphael closes his eyes, throat too wrecked to wince when Sara places the cloth to his bleeding chest, head too heavy to turn away. Very rarely does he hate this body, save for times like these, where his chest blooms like a prison and bleeds like a prisoner.

“I knew Rosa was sick,” he says, “Blanca needed to stay. There can’t only be one girl in the house.”

“No,” Sara breathes. “You’re the priority. You’re the prized one.”

Rapha exhales slowly. Señora Blanca is not a cruel madam, not in the slightest. She forbids the girls to be on their own in the house for their own safety. She shuts the rooms at 4am sharp, and keeps them all well-fed, well-rested, clean and healthy.

When Rapha had said his new name in the light, only three years after he had began to work at The Three Soldiers, he was sure he was going to be turned out, and left workless, for where was a former Soldier girl to work beside from the street, where men could do to him as they liked, and pay only in the lack of injury?

He was taken off the floor, but paid just as well, and did house-calls. They may have been riskier, but Blanca never let him go alone, and they paid triple that which he had made working in the house, for there was a novelty to it; a man-in-woman’s body.

“She knows Sebastien is banned from the Three Soldiers after he broke Rosa’s arm,” Sara sighs. Rosa’s arm had never really healed, and infections came back in waves that Sara’s magic could never banish for good. “And she let you do a house-call unaccompanied?”

Raphael looks at her. “I owed him. Off the books. Blanca doesn’t know.”

Sébastien closed the door behind him. Rapha kept his back straight anyway.

“You came alone,” Sébastien said. His voice was lighter than Rapha remembered.

“You asked me to,” Rapha replies.

“Yes,” Sébastien agrees. “Thank you.”

A pause. Rapha lets his eyes adjust to the dimness; shutters half-drawn, a single lamp burning low. There’s a chair in the center of the room. He doesn’t sit.

“You owe me,” Sébastien continues, stepping closer. “You know that.”

Rapha stays quiet.

“You hurt me,” Sébastien says. “You stepped into a situation that was not your business."

“You were going to kill her,” Rapha corrects, quietly.

“You fucked me up good, Raphael,” Sébastien says, “and yet, you walked out of the Three Soldiers untouched.”

Rapha doesn’t answer. Rosa hadn’t.

Sébastien tilts his head. “That place is crawling with my men, Rapha. They were going to kill you for even touching me. I didn’t let them. You owe me.”

Rapha’s jaw tightens. “You hurt Rosa. She didn’t deserve that,” he says.

“No,” Sébastien agrees easily. “She didn’t. But you?” Sébastien’s gaze drags slowly over him. “You made a choice.”

Rapha holds his ground. “I did,” he says.

“And choices have prices.”

Sébastien gestures toward the chair.

“Sit.”

Rapha doesn’t move.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Rapha crosses the room and sits. The wood is cold even through the thin fabric at his back. His hands rest on his knees, steady by force of will.

Sébastien circles him, slow, deliberate. “Do you remember,” he says, “how it used to be?”

Rapha stares straight ahead. “I don’t work the floor anymore.”

“No,” Sébastien says. “You don’t.”

A hand lands on his shoulder.

“Stand up.”

Rapha does.

“Good,” he says. “You still listen.” Sébastien steps back toward the chair, seating himself. “Kneel.”

Rapha doesn’t move this time. “I don’t do that,” he says.

Sébastien exhales through his nose. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not,” Rapha says. “I’ll settle it. Just not like that.”

“Not like that,” Sébastien repeats, a humorless laugh escaping him. “You think you get to choose the terms?”

“No,” Rapha says, more firmly now. “I’m not–”

Sébastien’s hand comes fast, closing around his throat and slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth. Rapha gasps, the air knocked clean out of him.

“There it is,” Sébastien murmurs, stepping in close. “That tone.” His grip tightens. “You think,” heaving now, “you’ve become something else.”

Rapha’s fingers come up instinctively, but fall short of clawing at his neck. He will not afford Sébastien that slippage. “I am something else,” he forces out.

“Say that again.”

Rapha meets his eyes. “I am not one of your girls.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. And then all breath leaves him, shuddering and crushed and twisted.

“You were,” he says softly. “You are.” Sébastien’s thumb presses into his throat, right where the bruising will bloom later. “On your knees,” he says again.

Rapha shakes his head. The first blow lands to his ribs. Rapha folds with it, the air he barely had driven out again as his back hits the floor. He tastes blood almost immediately.

“Don’t,” Sébastien says, crouching over him, “make this worse.”

Rapha coughs, turning his head, trying to drag in air through a throat that won’t quite open.

“I came,” he manages. “That’s the debt.”

“The debt,” he says, “is obedience.”

Rapha curls in on himself, arms instinctively trying to shield what he can.

“I won’t—”

The boot catches his side before he can finish.

“You will,” Sébastien says.

Rapha doesn’t answer this time, pushing himself up instead.. That seems to irritate Sébastien more than refusal.

“Stay down.”

Rapha doesn’t. He gets one knee under him, then the other. His vision swims, the room tilting at the edges.

“I said,” Sébastien snaps, reaching again for Rapha’s throat.

This time, Rapha jerks back, not fast enough to avoid it entirely, but enough that the grip slips, turning into fingers digging into the side of his neck instead of closing clean. It’s enough. The door is only a few steps away. A hand catches the back of Rapha’s shirt, yanking him off balance. His head cracks against the edge of the table on the way down. Sound drops out. For a second, he doesn’t feel anything at all. Then everything comes back at once. Somewhere above him, Sébastien is speaking again, but the words blur, stretch, dissolve into tone and cadence.

Rapha doesn’t wait to understand.

He rolls, drags himself, fingers slipping against the floor before finding purchase. He doesn’t remember opening the door.Only the sudden rush of colder air, the ground rising up too fast…and then nothing but impact.

Rosa is propped up on pillows as Sara pushes the door open with her shoulder, Raphael leaning heavily against her side. He walks under his own power, but only just. Each step is careful, measured, like he’s afraid his legs might give out.

Rosa’s eyes widen. “Rapha…”

He tries to smile. It comes out crooked. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you lost a bullfight."

“Would’ve been kinder,” Raphael murmurs.

Sara clicks her tongue. “Sit. Both of you.”

Raphael obeys, lowering himself onto the edge of Rosa’s bed, shifting her blankets aside so he can lean back against the wall. He does, exhaling shakily as the room stops tilting. Sara sets her basin on the nightstand. The water inside is cloudy with herbs; yarrow, comfrey, a pinch of salt from the riverbank. She dips her fingers in and stirs, whispering under her breath.

Rosa watches her. “You’re using the strong mix.”

“You’re both a mess,” Sara replies. “You need it..”

She wrings out a cloth and presses it gently to Rosa’s swollen arm. Rosa hisses, then relaxes as the warmth seeps in.

Raphael watches, eyes softening. “Does it help?”

“A little,” Rosa says. “Takes the edge off.”

Sara glances at him. “Your turn.”

Raphael stiffens. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

He looks down. He is.

Rosa nudges him with her good hand. “Let her.”

Raphael sighs, defeated. Sara lifts the hem of his shirt carefully. The bruises are already blooming in deep purples, sickly greens, the kind that will stain for weeks. She presses the cloth to his ribs. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

Rosa watches him closely. “He did this?”

Raphael doesn’t answer.

Sara does. “Yes.”

Rosa’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have gone.”

“I owed him,” Raphael says quietly.

“No,” Rosa says. “Rapha, no.”

Raphael closes his eyes. “He kept his men from killing me. That’s not nothing.”

“That’s leverage,” Sara says.

Raphael swallows, throat still raw. “I thought… if I went, it would end it.”

Sara snorts softly. “Sébastien is not one to end things for good. Especially with us. Stop talking.” She presses the cloth to his throat now, where the bruising is darkest. Raphael’s breath catches, but he stays still.

“You scared us,” Rosa says. "You left without telling any of us. Marisol worried."

Raphael opens his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re family,” Sara says simply. “You don’t owe us apologies for surviving. You owe us surviving, though.”

Rosa shifts, wincing. “Come closer.”

Raphael leans in. Rosa rests her forehead against his shoulder for a moment, breathing him in like proof.

“You came back,” she whispers.

“I always will,” he says.

Marisol always arrives at the Three Soldiers on Saturdays with her hair neatly braided and her uniform sweater tied around her waist, as if she’s trying to look both grown and small at the same time. She pushes through herself, slipping through the kitchen door.

Blanca looks up from the ledger in her lap. “Marisol. You’re early.”

Marisol doesn’t answer. She stands in the doorway, fists balled in the hem of her skirt, eyes shining with something Blanca recognizes instantly: fear.

“Where is he?” Marisol asks.

Blanca sets the ledger aside. “He’s resting. Why?”

Marisol swallows hard, small chin wobbling. “I need to see him.”

Blanca rises. “Marisol. Tell me what’s wrong.”

The girl’s breath trembles. “He gave me his shirt to wash at school.”

Blanca goes still.

Marisol’s voice cracks. “It had blood on it.”

Blanca kneels so they’re eye level. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” Marisol says quickly. “Not me. Him.”

Blanca exhales slowly, steadying herself. “Come with me.”

Raphael is sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt half-buttoned, running his fingers over the cuts on his side, as if trying to test whether or not the scar would hold. He straightens when he sees Marisol, but the movement sends a wince across his face.

“Mari,” he says softly. “It’s only ten. You’re supposed to be at school.”

She runs to him, climbing onto the bed and wrapping her arms around his waist. Raphael holds her carefully, mindful of the bruises.

“You didn’t tell me,” she whispers.

Raphael closes his eyes. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Blanca watches them, arms folded, expression unreadable. “Raphael,” she says. “Explain.”

He doesn’t look at her. “It’s nothing.”

Marisol pulls back, glaring at him with all the fury a child can muster. “Don’t lie.”

Raphael sighs, defeated. “It was Sébastien.”

Blanca’s jaw tightens. “You told me you were doing a house-call for a regular.”

“I didn’t want you to stop me,” Raphael says quietly.

“You’re right,” Blanca replies. “I would have.”

Marisol looks between them, confused. “Who’s Sébastien? Did you do something bad?”

Blanca steps closer. “Mari, sweetheart, go wait with Sara in the kitchen. I need to speak with your brother.”

Rapha rises to open the door, letting Mari run out and calling out for Sara, hoping she can cook something sweet fast enough to distract her.

Blanca sits in the indent Mari left in the blankets. “You’re limping.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Raphael looks down at his hands. “I didn’t want her to know.”

“She’s a child, not blind,” Blanca says. “And she loves you. That gives her eyes sharper than mine.”

Raphael’s throat tightens. “She shouldn’t have to worry about me.” He sighs. “The school only lets her board because you vouched for her. For me. I didn’t want to risk that, her safety. She doesn’t need to see the things I see.”

Blanca softens. “Raphael. That arrangement exists because you work hard, because you show up for her, because she thrives there. Not because you walk into danger to pay imaginary debts.”

Raphael’s voice is barely a whisper. “I thought if I handled it quietly, it would be over.”

Blanca shakes her head. “Violent men don’t end things quietly. They end them when someone stops them.”

Raphael looks up sharply. “Blanca—”

“You think your life is worth less than the girls’. It is not.” Blanca stands, smoothing her skirt. “Sébastien will not touch you again.”

Raphael tenses. “Blanca— don’t—”

“I am not sending anyone after him,” she says. “I am not starting a war. But I will not allow him near my house, my girls, or my boy.”

Raphael blinks. “Your boy?”

Blanca’s expression softens just a fraction. “You think I kept you on because of novelty? Because men pay well for what they don’t understand?” She shakes her head. “I kept you because you are mine to protect. And you are worth protecting.”

Raphael exhales, relief and fear tangled together. “I don’t want a war.”

“There won’t be one,” Blanca says. “You will rest. You will let Sara tend to you. And when you’re well enough, you will go visit Marisol at school.”

Raphael nods, eyes stinging. “Thank you.”

Blanca pauses at the door. “Raphael.”

He looks up.

“You are not a liability,” she says. “You are family. Start acting like it.”

For a few, precious weeks, it all healed over.

Raphael found himself easing back into routines he’d forgotten he loved; quiet mornings in the courtyard sweeping fallen jacaranda blossoms into neat piles, afternoons spent mending hems for the girls who always tore their skirts on the banister, evenings where he begged Sara not to burn her herbs while the washing was drying because the smoke wouldn’t come out. Marisol wrote him letters from school, each one decorated with doodles of cats wearing hats, labelled with increasingly intricate descriptions of how each one was related to Pequeña.

Wednesdays became his favorite, because he and Rosa were trusted to chaperone each other on their weekly trip to Valentina’s bakery. Rosa would lean against the display case, chin propped on her good hand, and whisper conspiratorially about which customers were secretly in love with Valentina. Raphael would pretend not to listen, and Valentina would pretend not to blush. Sometimes, he would be given a pastry and a cup of coffee on the house for his troubles.

One afternoon, as they walked back from the bakery, Rosa looped her arm through his carefully, mindful of his ribs that still ached when he breathed too deeply.

“You’re quieter,” she said.

Raphael nudged a pebble with the toe of his boot. “I’m thinking.”

“That’s what I mean,” Rosa replied. “You only think this much when you’re worried.”

He huffed a laugh. “You make me sound simple.”

“You are,” she said cheerfully.

He bumped her shoulder. She bumped him back, gentler.

When they reached the house, the courtyard was full of sunlight and the smell of drying lavender. Sara stayed in her room, window open, preparing wards and charms for the night to come. Marisol’s latest letter sat on the table, folded into a shape that might have been a boat or a hat—Raphael couldn’t tell.

He unfolded it carefully.

‘Pequeña has a cousin who lives in the walls,’ she’d written. ‘I think she is shy. Or maybe she is a ghost. If she is a ghost, tell her she can still have milk.’

Raphael smiled.

Blanca watched him from the doorway. “You look better,” she said.

“I feel better.”

“Good.” She stepped aside so he could pass. “Then you can help me with the storeroom.”

That night, Raphael stands in the dressing room among the girls, running his fingers over the cuts on his side, as if trying to test whether or not the scars will hold. Valentina looks at him briefly, waving him to the side so she can grab her hairbrush. He pulls his shirt back on immediately.

“Sara,” he calls. “Can I use your hair cream?”

Sara glances up from fitting her skirt, taking the pins from her mouth and stabbing them into the seat-cushion behind her.

“You going out tonight?” She calls.

Rapha nods, teasing the last of the buttons through on his shirt. “Señor Duarte.” He picks up the jar slowly, holding it up to her in question.

Sara waves a hand. “Go on, then. See me before you leave.”

Raphael grins and digs his fingers into the glossy yellow cream. It smells sharp, like lemongrass and nutmeg as he spreads it across his scalp and into his thick brown curls. There was a time when, from the back, he and Sara looked near identical, same hairstyle and length and texture, as long as he wore heels. Sara hated it. Rapha would use it to steal extra biscuits from the kitchen after dinner.

He crosses the room, stepping over lone shoes and forgotten bodices to the sink in the corner. Opening the tap with his elbow, he rinses the last of the cream from his hands, rising to meet his reflection in the small mirror.

“Rosa,” he turns.

“Mm?” Rosa asks, teasing jewelry through her piercings. It had been weeks since she’d worked the floor, and she was struggling with a particularly stubborn piece of navel jewelry.

“I’m thinking…” he says slowly, “maybe just a little.” He gestures vaguely at his face. “Something subtle.”

“Subtle,” Rosa repeats, as if tasting the word. “You? Since when?”

Raphael flicks water at her. She ducks, holding up her hands, dropping her jewelry in the process. Her eyes widen as she drops to the floor, running her fingers across the carpet. “Rapha!”

He rolls his eyes and reaches for the small tin of tinted balm on the shelf.

“You’re nervous,” she says, recovering the dropped stud, wiping it clean on the hem of her top.

“I’m not.”

“You are. You only ask about makeup when you’re nervous.”

Raphael opens the tin anyway, dabbing a fingertip into the soft pigment. “It’s a house-call. I want to look presentable.”

“Rapha,” Rosa says, softer now, “you and presentable are oxymorons.”

He doesn’t answer. He smooths the balm under his eyes, blending it until it disappears into his skin. It’s barely anything, just enough to even him out, to make him look less tired, less like someone who still wakes up some nights with his throat aching from memory.

Behind him, the room swirls with movement: Valentina tugging her hair into place, Sara fastening the last hook on her bodice, two of the older girls arguing over a missing ring.

Rosa steps closer, nudging him aside so she can see the mirror too. “Tilt your chin,” she says.

He does. She reaches up with her good hand and brushes a stray curl back from his forehead, smoothing it into place with a practiced touch.

“There,” she says. “Now you look presentable.”

Raphael huffs a laugh. “Thank you.”

Rosa bumps her shoulder against his. “Don’t make it weird.”

Sara’s voice cuts across the room. “Rapha! You said you’d see me before you go.”

He straightens, smoothing his shirt. “I’m coming.”

She stands by the door, hands on her hips, watching him walk over. A single red ribbon droops from her hand, identical to the one tied around her own wrist. She holds her hand out.

“Give,” she says, gesturing towards Rapha’s arm.

He does. She ties it around his wrist gently, whispering beneath her breath. “There. For protection.”

“Sara, you don’t need to–”

“I do it for everyone. You need the extra protection.”

Rapha stills.

Sara looks at him then, earrings catching the light. “You’ll be okay tonight,” she says. It sounds more a prayer to self than an affirmation. “Have fun tonight.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek, and sends him out the door.

Raphael stumbles into the dimness of the corridor, where Blanca is already lighting the lanterns set every couple feet into the wall. She turns, eyes locking onto him.

“Raphael. I was just about to come find you. A call came for you.”

“What?” Raphael asked.

She hesitated. “It was from Señor Duarte. He’s cancelling tonight.”

Raphael blinked. “He never cancels.”

“That’s what concerns me,” Blanca murmured. “He asked for you specifically when he booked. He was adamant.”

Raphael frowned. Duarte was predictable to the point of ritual: always polite, always punctual, always requesting the same tea blend, housecalls to his second house by the lakeside. He’d never once asked for anyone by name.

“Did he say why?” Raphael asked.

“No,” Blanca said. “Just that he needed to ‘reconsider the arrangement.’”

Raphael shifted. “Maybe he’s travelling.”

“Maybe,” Blanca said, though her tone suggested she didn’t believe it.

Raphael spends the rest of the night feeling like a particularly fleshy lampshade.

He stands in the doorway and takes coats. About an hour into the night, he relents and takes off his shined dress shoes, socks brushing the tile in admission of loss.

He had lost his first housecall since that night, with Señor Duarte, no less. Rapha had been looking forward to an easy reintroduction; the man had tired of sex, and preferred an evening of conversation, maybe a solid body to sleep beside. His pay suggested a night ten times more taxing than it typically was.

He hangs around the parlor for a while, serving drinks and clearing glasses, chatting to old regulars.

He lasts another hour before he starts drifting.

There is only so much usefulness that can be gleaned from wiping already-clean tables and refilling glasses that are barely empty. The house carries on without him easily, like an orchestra that does not notice when one instrument drops out. Raphael leans against the archway between the parlor and the hall, watching the room breathe. Someone calls for Sara. Valentina glides past him with a tray balanced on her fingertips, not even looking to see if he’ll move. He does so automatically.

For a moment, he considers putting his shoes back on.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he slips down the corridor, socks whispering against tile. The lanterns Blanca lit earlier burn low and steady, glass chimneys fogged faintly with heat. The air smells like lavender and citrus peel, with something sharper underneath. Sara’s wards, maybe.

There is nothing for him to do.

It sits poorly in his chest, that realization. Not quite anxiety, not quite relief. Something in between, restless and unsatisfied.

He pauses outside the dressing room. The door is ajar, light spilling through the crack. Inside, the girls are mid-transformation; laces being pulled, hair pinned, lips stained into careful shapes. Their voices overlap in easy chaos:

“…I told you that one’s mine—”

“You said that about the blue one too—”

“Rapha, stop hovering, either come in or go away—”

He pushes the door open with his shoulder.

“I’m not hovering,” he says mildly.

Rosa, perched on the edge of the vanity, raises an eyebrow. “You’re in the doorway.”

“I resent that.”

“You should. It’s unbecoming.”

He smiles despite himself, drifting further in, automatically reaching for a brush abandoned on the table and working through a knot in one of the younger girl’s hair. She leans into it without question.

“Didn’t you have a call tonight?” she asks.

“Cancelled.”

A chorus of soft groans rises up.

Raphael clicks his tongue. “Heartless, all of you.”

“Truly,” Rosa agrees. “Devastating. You’ll have to suffer here with us instead.”

He finishes the braid and ties it off neatly, tapping the girl’s shoulder. “There. Presentable.”

“Barely,” Rosa says.

He flicks a hairpin at her. She catches it one-handed, triumphant. For a few minutes, he stays. It is easy to fall into: this pattern, small tasks, light touches, the quiet intimacy of preparation. But the rhythm is not his tonight. He feels it, the slight misalignment, like stepping into a dance half a beat too late as the girls file out slowly, hitting the floor, or taking appointments in their rooms.

Eventually, he steps back.

“Go,” Rosa says, not unkindly. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m doing nothing.”

“Exactly.”

He huffs, but he leaves.

The kitchen is empty. That, more than anything, feels wrong, there is always someone in the kitchen. Sara humming, Blanca counting, someone stealing something they shouldn’t. Now it sits still and dim, the stove banked low, the last of the evening’s warmth fading from the bricks. He pours himself a glass of water and doesn’t drink it, just holds it, watching the way the lamplight bends through the surface.

He tries to picture what he would be doing right now, had Duarte not cancelled.

Sitting in that quiet riverside house. Listening. Nodding at the right moments. Maybe laughing softly, if prompted. Letting the hours pass in that careful, curated way. Easy. Predictable. Safe.

He sets the glass down.

“Boring,” he mutters, though there’s no conviction in it.

A soft huff of breath answers him. Raphael startles, turning. Lupe lifts his head from where he’s been curled beneath the table, tail thumping once against the floor in lazy acknowledgment.

“Oh,” Rapha exhales. “It’s you.”

Lupe yawns, entirely unimpressed. Raphael slides down to sit on the floor beside him, back against the cupboard. The tile is cool through his shirt. For a moment, he just sits there, listening to the distant pulse of the house. Lupe nudges his knee with his nose.

“I know,” Raphael says quietly. “I’m being strange.”

Lupe licks his hand, which is, if anything, less helpful. Raphael lets his head fall back against the cupboard, closing his eyes. He had thought that tonight would mark something. A return. A line drawn cleanly between before and after.

Instead, he is here. Unused. Unneeded.

After a moment, he pushes himself back to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers.

“Come on,” he murmurs to Lupe. “We’ll find something to do.”

Lupe stretches, then follows Rapha through to the courtyard. The night air is cooler, threaded with the scent of drying lavender and damp earth. The lanterns out here are dimmer, their light softer, casting long, gentle shadows across the stone. Raphael picks up the broom resting against the wall and begins to sweep, though there is nothing to clear. Back and forth, back and forth. The steady rasp of bristles against stone fills the quiet, gives his hands something to hold onto. Eventually, he sits on the bench in the far corner, next to the empty plate of scraps that Pequena had long cleared. He considers bringing it back inside.

He does not.

He sits outside until sunrise.