The empty urnAt sixty-five, Jorge Saldaña no longer climbed stairs: he negotiated them.
Every step took its toll. His left knee protested, his back felt like overloaded wires, and his hands, hardened by decades of working with electricity, no longer closed the same way after a full day of changing load centers, repairing switches, or pulling cable through old pipes in houses that were falling apart.
Even so, on the first Friday of every month, Jorge would climb the four floors of the building at 1305 Morelos Street, in an old neighborhood of Puebla, with an envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Eight thousand peso bills.
Eight thousand pesos that he saved between his minimum pension and odd jobs that he shouldn’t be doing anymore at his age.
Eight thousand pesos for Vanessa, his son’s widow.
Or so I thought.
That Friday in November, when he reached the last landing, he had to stop to catch his breath. In front of him was the beige door of apartment 4-B. On the other side, he could hear the television and, far in the background, a male voice.
Jorge frowned.
