Elena Vasquez

Three days.

The numeral rested on my tongue like a bullet I couldn't eject.

Three days.

Three bleeding scars.

Three subway-token rings are now secured inside the cash register as none of us dared to handle them more.

The eatery fell silent once the boy departed.

Not calm silence. The sort of stillness occurring moments before an explosion when even the atmosphere seems to be holding its breath.

We stayed awake.

Javier blocked the entrance using the worn prep table. Mamá ...