When I regained consciousness, the room was filled with the acrid smell of burnt bacon. I could hear Víctor’s parents laughing, their mocking voices dripping with disdain. My thigh throbbed, and each breath felt like a struggle against the weight of despair. I prayed that Alex had seen the message, that he was on his way.
Minutes felt like hours as I lay there, helpless, trying to shield my unborn child from the chaos around us. It was then that I heard it—a sound that cut through the haze of agony—a car screeching to a halt outside the house.
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