You want to scream his name.
But Ricardo yanks you behind a fence, and you both crouch in the shadows as men move toward the shed.

You watch your son point.

You watch him betray the exact place he learned to call home.

Ricardo’s breath is steady, but his eyes are wet.
Not from the rain.

“Ricardo,” you whisper, breaking, “he’s our son.”

Ricardo’s voice is low, deadly calm. “Not tonight,” he says. “Tonight he’s their door.”

You hold your breath as the men reach the shed.

They rip it open.

They find the trap panel lifted.

They curse.

Lidia appears at the back porch, hair slicked by rain, face furious.
She shouts something you can’t hear, but you see her point toward the street.

Toward you.

Ricardo squeezes your hand once.
A goodbye in case the night goes wrong.
Then he pulls you up and you run again, faster, deeper into the rain, toward the only man who might understand the coin in Ricardo’s pocket.

Toward Héctor Salinas and his tortilla shop.

Because the wall behind you didn’t just hide secrets.

It hid a war.

And you’re finally stepping into it.