Marcelo stopped three meters away. He felt the absurdity of his existence: a three-thousand-dollar suit, a Patek Philippe on his wrist that cost more than his house, an impressive privilege.
“Are you alone here?” he asked.
His voice, which was usually used to try to support the tool of intimidation in the courtrooms, now became hoarse. He spoke as if he didn’t even know himself.
The girl didn’t even dare to blink. The rain intensified, beating in a mad rhythm against the corrugated metal above them. A dirty drop of water fell from a rusty beam onto the child’s forehead. The baby didn’t even flinch.
“Where is your mother?” Marcelo took another step.
The girl’s mouth twisted. It wasn’t a grimace, it was a growl. She stepped back and hit her back against a splinter of the wooden pole. She didn’t look for a way out, because she knew it would be a mistake.
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