The first night you help Alejandro stand, the entire mansion is asleep.
Beverly Hills is quiet outside the tall windows, the kind of quiet only rich neighborhoods can afford. No sirens. No neighbors shouting. No buses groaning past cracked sidewalks. Just sprinklers whispering over perfect lawns and the soft hum of central air in a house big enough to swallow secrets whole.
Alejandro sits in his wheelchair, staring at the metal braces beside him like they are not medical equipment, but a dare.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says.
His voice is sharp, but you hear the fear beneath it.
You are only seventeen. You are not a nurse. You are not a physical therapist. You are a maid with tired hands, aching feet, and a stolen dream of finishing high school folded somewhere inside your chest. But you know what it feels like when everyone decides your life is over before you do.
So you kneel in front of him and pick up one brace.
“Yes,” you say softly. “I do.”
He laughs bitterly.
