“He is struggling, Marcos,” Ana said, her hands moving rapidly as she slid her phone into her leather purse. “I will be back before dark.”
She did not wait for his reply, her keys clinking together as she hurried through the back door into the gray autumn afternoon.
Two hours later, the kitchen was dark except for the light over the stove. Gustavo stood by the sink, his fingers tapping rapidly against his phone screen as he waited for a small kettle of water to boil.
“She should have been back by four,” Marcos said, leaning against the counter near the blue plastic folder.
“She is fine, Marcos, my man,” Gustavo said, using his familiar, hurried slang. He took a box of herbal tea from the cupboard. “The highway traffic is always a mess on Friday afternoons.”
“She was only going to buy the crib mattress, Gustavo,” Marcos said.
“Let me brew you some of this chamomile,” Gustavo said, pouring the boiling water into a ceramic mug. “You are wound up too tight.”
Gustavo set the mug on the counter, right next to the blue folder. His eyes lingered on the plastic tab of the folder for a second too long before he looked up.
“Hey, Marcos, do you still keep that spare brass key under the back porch planter?” Gustavo asked. “I might need to check on Mother’s place later, and I lost my set.”
“It is in the drawer by the fridge,” Marcos said, pointing toward the small cabinet.
Gustavo opened the drawer, his hand moving with a strange, nervous speed as he slid the silver key into his pocket.
The wind outside began to rattle the kitchen window panes as a sudden autumn storm rolled in over the suburbs. Marcos took a sip of the warm tea, but the taste was unusually bitter, leaving a dry coating on the back of his tongue.
