Valeria

Lorenzo leaned heavily against me as we climbed out of the car. His arm was slung over my shoulders, his steps slow and unsteady, every breath still ragged from the pain he refused to admit. I kept my grip firm around his waist, supporting most of his weight while he tried to walk like he wasn’t half-broken. The driver held the back door open until we were both clear, then shut it quietly behind us.

We approached the front steps of the old house together—my house, once. The same ...