“With respect, sir,” he scoffed, “you don’t know these people. They show up from nowhere, no documents, no past, telling stories to get sympathy.”
His words fueled my anger—but also planted a seed of doubt.
No documents?
I looked at Lucia again. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, but her fear was unmistakable. Not the fear of losing a job—something deeper.
“Where do you live?” I asked quietly.
She hesitated, biting her lip.
“In… a rented room. In San Miguel.”
“With whom?”
“My grandmother.”
“And your parents?”
Her jaw tightened. A single tear slid down her dirt-smudged cheek.
“I don’t know them, sir. Grandma says they left me when I was a baby.”
The world tilted.
Baby.
Abandoned.
Grandmother.
The pieces were forming a picture I didn’t want to see.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three… I think. Grandma isn’t sure.”
Twenty-three.
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