You call the ambulance.
You call the orthopedic surgeon.
You call emergency services and can barely speak.
“My son,” you say. “His cast. There are insects inside. Infection risk. He needs help now.”
Valeria backs toward the hallway.
You see her.
“Elvira,” you say without looking away, “lock the front door.”
Valeria freezes.
“What?”
You step toward her.
“Where are you going?”
She laughs, but it is thin. “To get dressed. We need to go to the hospital.”
“No.”
Her face changes.
You have seen Valeria angry before.
Elegant anger.
Polished anger.
The kind of anger that makes staff disappear and waiters apologize for things they did not do.
This is different.
This is trapped anger.
“Do not look at me like that,” she says.
You stare at her.
“What did you do?”
Her mouth opens.
No sound comes.
Behind you, Diego sobs while Elvira cleans the exposed skin as gently as she can. He is shaking. He is feverish. He is alive.
And every second makes the question louder.
“What did you do to my son?”
Valeria’s eyes fill again.
“You’re insane.”
“No,” you say. “That was your word for him.”
The ambulance arrives fourteen minutes later.
Paramedics rush in. Elvira gives a fast, precise explanation, far calmer than you deserve. The exposed arm is covered, treated, stabilized. Diego is lifted onto a stretcher, still crying, still begging not to let Valeria near him.
That is when one paramedic pauses.
He looks at you.
Then at Valeria.
Then back at Diego.
“Sir,” he says carefully, “we’re required to report suspected child abuse.”
The room goes silent.
Valeria explodes.
“Child abuse? He broke his arm at school! His own paranoia made this worse!”
Diego turns his face into Elvira’s hand.
The paramedic does not argue.
He simply says, “We’re required to report it.”
For the first time in your marriage, Valeria looks at you not as a husband, but as a man who might become useless to her.
“Tell them,” she says.
You look at your son.
His eyelids flutter. His lips are gray. His body is exhausted from days of torture you dismissed as madness.
Then you look back at your wife.
“No.”
Her face drains.
The hospital becomes a blur.
Emergency care.
Orthopedic consult.
Infectious disease consult.
Antihistamines.
Antibiotics.
Wound cleaning.
Pain control.
Bloodwork.
Photographs.
Reports.
Doctors speak in low, controlled voices that make everything sound even worse.
Chemical irritant.
Insect contamination.
Deliberate introduction possible.
Cast tampering.
Prolonged distress.
Psychological trauma.
You stand beside Diego’s bed while he sleeps under medication, his arm cleaned and bandaged, the broken bone stabilized again.
He looks small.
Too small.
Ten years old.
