The driver rolled down the window. The air conditioning inside the car hit Carmen’s face, but it was what she saw that truly chilled her blood.
The man behind the wheel looked to be about thirty-five. He wore a wrinkled white shirt, his tie loosened as if it were choking him, and his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. But that wasn’t what stopped Carmen’s heart. It was his eyes. Dark, bloodshot eyes that screamed a silent, terrifying despair. And then she saw it. A thin white scar on his left temple.
Time stood still. The noise of the highway traffic disappeared. Carmen felt a sudden vertigo that dragged her back twelve years, to a November night filled with black smoke and roaring flames.
—Documents, please—Carmen said, but her voice sounded strange, distant, as if it belonged to someone else.
The man looked at her, but didn’t see her. His eyes pierced her, focused on some unseen horror. He handed her the license with trembling hands. “Diego Navarro,” she read in her mind. The name she had searched for in vain for over a decade. It was him. The man who had entered the inferno of a burning building in Vallecas when she was just a fourteen-year-old girl, trapped and suffocating. The stranger who had carried her out in his arms, risking his own life, only to disappear amidst the sirens and chaos without expecting a single thank you.
Carmen swallowed, trying to maintain her professional composure. She was going to say something, break protocol, and ask if he remembered the fire, but then her gaze shifted to the passenger seat. There was a crumpled piece of paper with a hospital logo: “Pediatric Oncology – Urgent Appointment – 3:00 PM.” And on the back seat, a small pink suitcase with unicorn stickers.
