The receptionist is no longer alone and does not mind giving concrete answers to my questions. His words are always evasive and short, and this, in addition to all the secrecy regarding the non-mention of the unknown patient, annoys me. My breakfast is as improvised as my nap, since I fill myself with snacks and juices from the vending machine, deliberately avoiding having to move away from the surroundings of the reception to look for the snack bar.

My frustration lasts for two more long and endless hours, and Penelope emerges from one of the long corridors illuminated by strong lights, fluttering her pink dress and honey-colored hair. Her bag hangs next to her waist, drawing the contour of the canteen inside, however, Penelope still looks quite sober with her soft steps. A discreet smile pulls the corners of her lips before she reaches me, wraps her arm around my shoulders, and pulls me to the exit.

“I was talking to my mother’s ex-boyfriend and I found out some things about her Greek God” she speaks softly. “The bullet was extracted. Even if the shot hit the abdomen, it was superficial and left no fragments. Luckily he did not pierce the esophagus or the large thoracic vessels, otherwise, he would have died before you offered help. The most complicated was knee surgery to repair the ruptured ligaments, he will not be able to walk perfectly for a long time. In addition to breaking one of the bones of the left leg and the nose, fracturing two ribs and the blood transfusion that will keep you under observation.”

A strange relief fills me. “At least he’s not dead.”

Penelope seems to trap the laughter.

“I almost forget his mouth… He lost two wisdom teeth with his beating and almost had a hemorrhage, so he spits out so much blood… Meanwhile, at the age of sixteen, I paid dearly for surgery on my mouth, not knowing that if I took a beating I would save some money and still get rid of the teeth I didn’t need!”

“Pen!” I scold her with a sharp look, but that only makes her let go of her trapped laughter. “At least did the doctors get any information from him?”

The double doors open when a pair of nurses appear pushing a stretcher with an unconscious man.

“Oh, no… He became conscious after the surgery but didn’t want to talk to anyone.” Penelope raises her hand to cover the eyes of the rising sun that welcomes us outside.

The parking lot is full and we are forced to wind around the cars to pass. I am so sleepy and distracted that I end up bumping painfully into each rearview mirror within my reach. In one of these contractions, Penelope turns to me as if she had just thought of something important, but…

“Look! There’s a flag stuck to that mast.” Penelope is pointing to the top of my back. As soon as I turn to find out, she triggers the alarm of her blue Ford and unlocks it. “Why the hell did they put a flag made of a hospital apron right up there? Isn’t it obvious enough where we are?”

What in the eyes of my friend is a flag, to mine it is nothing more than a plastic sweater that was torn around the metal pipe, positioned next to one of the windows on the second floor of the building. This is the floor on which patients are hospitalized.

Below the windows, a flower bed of bushes and flowers rises in a dark and humid-looking land. Along the pavement, garnished footprints decorate the shiny asphalt. A shiver grows on my spine and I turn around, seeking an answer to the alert that blinks in my mind.

“Beautiful girl…” the engrossed whisper fades through my startle.

Penelope starts laughing, and I scream, glimpsing the unknown man leaning staggering on a cane too small for his size. His face is still swollen and with spots that become greenish on the sides of the lesions, highlighting the bandage on his nose and on the sides of his wide and dry mouth. Except for the bands on his abdomen, right hand, left leg, and right knee in a velcro immobilizer, he does not use anything else.

Completely naked and with a weak smile on his whitish lips, he pulls the last piece of the plastic sweater and exposes all the rest of the tattooed skin above the bandage on his waist.

The drawings engraved on your shapely arms begin in the pectoral muscles with a fusion of messages in different languages, spirals, and lines, flowing in a connection with musical notes, stars, and rays through your right shoulder to your wrist. On the other side, the head of an open-mouthed Chinese dragon has its syrup outlined on its left shoulder. Among the pigmentation of drawings, there is a skin band with shy black curls separating them.

Instinctively, I open the overcoat in my arms and the game on the man’s shoulders, fighting so that my eyes do not descend through the bands in his belly. Once it is covered, I open the rear door of the car and force it to sit down. Taking the cane from your hands and throwing it with a deaf thud on the floor, I feel like I’m red from head to toe. If out of irritation or shame, I can’t say.

“What’s your damn problem, buddy?”

“I… the police… I can’t…” he moans.

“And why do you run away from the police so much? You’re putting your life at risk, damn it!”

The man growls softly and utters a word that I do not recognize as any of the languages in which I am fluent. He repeats it in English a moment later. “Ilegal… I’m…”

“What’s your name, man?” Penelope asks behind me.

“Hunter… Hunt…” I listen to the flaking of the estéris tissues that cover his thigh the moment he moves to maintain balance. The agony makes me crack my jaw. “Hunter.”

“Hunter… Is there another family member hidden around here with whom we can leave you?”

I turn to Penelope.

“Do you intend to take him from here?”

She doesn’t get shaken by my disbelief.

“He said he’s not a legal citizen! What if his country is at war and escape was the only way to escape? He can be a refugee and we will both die of guilt if he is caught.”

“You said guilt didn’t kill!” I remember her.

“In that case, it does kill.”

The man tilts his head back in what I imagine is a way to contain the pain in his ribs. There is no trace of a breeze over us, although his long brown hair practically floats above the coat that coats it. His look of magnificent green obsidians reflects a feverish glow as he returns my attention.

“No family…” Your hoarse voice still sounds a little groggy. I’m worried about how he may have descended a pipe if he can barely stand up. I kneel in front of the open door, groping him in search of new bruises. He shows no reaction. “Without… no one.”

“So, no one would notice if you disappeared?” Penelope ponders. Hunter and I looked in his direction with clear suspicion. “In your work, would no one notice your lack?”

“What are you doing?” I hissed, and she ignores me.

“I don’t have a fixed job… I’m a… escort.” He responds, his chest swinging and making his voice panting. Your gaze rises to stare at Penelope’s silhouette. “People pay me to… Anything.”

Penelope is silent for a moment, losing her gaze in the void. Then, gradually his lips bend in a clever smile.

“This is the second time we’re going to save your skin, man.” Declares in a low voice. “It’s good that it’s worth it.”

“Where are you going to take him?” I ask, standing up. Hunter follows me with his eyes. “Isn’t it too dangerous? I heard those guys ensure they didn’t want him to live longer.”

Penelope gives me an accomplice, reassuring look, and does the same by staring at Hunter’s pale face.

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

“Why do I have the feeling that I will regret it?”