From you.
Not from the cast.
From you.
That hurts more than any accusation.
“Elvira,” he whimpers. “Please. Please.”
The nanny bends over him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.
“I’m here, mi niño. I’m going to help you.”
You reach for your phone.
Valeria appears in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
Her voice is sharp now.
Not sweet.
Not concerned.
Sharp.
Elvira does not even look at her.
“We’re opening the cast.”
Valeria steps inside. “Absolutely not. The doctor said—”
“The doctor did not smell this,” Elvira snaps.
You look at Valeria.
For the first time since the nightmare began, you see something flash across her face.
Not worry.
Fear.
Your chest tightens.
“Valeria,” you say slowly, “why are you afraid of us opening it?”
Her expression changes instantly.
Tears fill her eyes.
“You’re accusing me now? After everything I’ve done for this family?”
A week ago, that would have worked.
A day ago, maybe.
But not with the smell in the room.
Not with the ants.
Not with your son’s fingers swollen and shaking.
“Move,” you say.
Her eyes harden.
Just for a second.
Then she steps aside.
Elvira takes the cast cutter from the emergency bag.
You do not ask why she has one.
Later, she will tell you that when she realized no one would believe Diego, she called an old friend from a clinic and begged for help.
Right now, all you hear is the small grinding sound as she begins cutting through the plaster.
Diego screams.
Not because the cutter touches him.
Because the vibration wakes whatever is inside.
“They’re moving!” he cries. “Daddy, they’re moving!”
You grab his shoulders gently, tears already blurring your vision.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m here.”
He looks at you with pure panic.
“You didn’t believe me.”
The words are worse than any curse.
“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t.”
Elvira cuts faster.
The room fills with dust, heat, and that terrible smell.
Valeria stands near the door, too still.
Then the cast cracks.
Elvira pries it open.
For one second, nobody moves.
Then she gasps.
You see red first.
Not blood exactly.
Irritated skin.
Swelling.
Dark spots.
Small moving bodies.
Ants.
Dozens of them, trapped beneath the cast, crawling through sticky brown residue smeared along the inner padding. Some are dead. Some are alive. Some disappear into folds of gauze where the skin has been rubbed raw.
Your vision narrows.
Diego’s screams become distant.
Elvira shouts for towels, water, alcohol, gloves.
You cannot move.
Because your son was telling the truth.
Your son was telling the truth.
Your son begged you to cut off his arm because something was literally eating at him under the cast.
And you tied him to the bed.
Elvira slaps your arm.
“Move, Alejandro!”
That brings you back.
You run for water.
