There were four people in that room, but only one was doing anything that looked like living. Doña Rebeca stared into her wine. Andrés stared at me. Valeria stared at the floor.

I stared at the daughter I’d once carried through a fever while she cried because the medicine tasted bitter.

The lamp hummed. The curtain moved. A shard of china rocked once on the tile and went still.

Nobody moved.

I wanted to hit him. I’m not proud of that, but I won’t lie about it. For one ugly second, I imagined taking the serving dish from the table and bringing it down hard enough to erase that little king’s smile.

Instead, I reached into my coat pocket.