The police could do nothing.
Apparently, Isidro hadn't said a word—just lay there, his eyes wide open, darting frantically from side to side as his hands desperately tried to hold in his blood.
No one knew what had happened.
A group of young men had found Isidro kicking at the air, thrashing in a pool of his own blood while they waited for the bus.
It had been twenty-eight days, and Margarita still knew nothing about her son. She had already mourned and buried her husband—the very man she hadn't even been able to properly say goodbye to, so overwhelmed by the shock of it all.
And by now, she had sworn her soul to the devil at least thirty times, promising it away if only she could get her boy back.
"Don't say things like that, Magos. What if he really shows up?" Remedios said, crossing herself.
"Well, that's exactly what I want—to see him. And I'll trade my soul for my son's return, I swear it."
"Woman, stop calling on the Enemy and come put up more posters. Come on," Leonora urged.
Her two friends stared at her, but Margarita was tired of plastering her son's face everywhere. It wasn't just that she felt it wasn't working—it was that now, she saw him everywhere except by her side.
And that hurt in ways she couldn't bear.
Where was he?
What were they doing to him?
Who had taken him?
"Come on, Magos..."
Margarita set the glue pot down on the table, looked at them—looked through them—then turned away, walked to her room, and shut herself in.
Her neighbors, who had been through this before, didn't follow her. They didn't disturb her. They didn't try to change her mind.
They simply picked up the glue, gathered more posters, left a bowl of soup on the table for her to see, and headed out to put up more flyers, hoping someone—anyone—would have information about Luisito's whereabouts.
Hours later, she emerged from her refuge.
She looked at the table, guilt creeping into her chest, then grabbed a few posters and a jar of glue and rushed outside, desperate to cover the streets with his face.
She decided to walk for an hour in any direction and, from there, start putting up her son's missing posters.
Her feet ached—she had walked far more than she should have.
The skin on her heels had cracked; the dry patches peeled off in rough flakes, her calluses the final defense of feet that could take no more. The sharp pain on the top of her foot—just before the little toe—warned her that something inside was changing. That the endless miles she walked every day, from dawn until deep into the night, were ruining her feet from the inside out.
And though she didn't stop to think about it when she finally returned home each night, peeling off her bloodied sandals, some grimace, some low groan, some small spasm reminded her that she was still human.
Or maybe that she was ceasing to be.
Then, she would collapse onto her bed and sink into a dreamless sleep—until some neighbor knocked at her door, bringing her something to eat.
But she never gave up searching.
Margarita had walked longer than she had planned when she finally started putting up posters. The police had done her the favor of printing them for her; all she had to do was buy the glue and find the right places to put them.
She felt guilty covering up other posters on the poles. Most were hand-written flyers—ads from people offering furniture repairs, construction work, or electrical installations for a fair price. There were also vague, coded messages, the kind where anyone who knew which clubs they advertised could guess what kind of services were really being offered.
And then, at the very bottom, there was that ad.
The one that always made her pause, forcing her to read it before she covered it up.
"Mystic Theater. Only for the desperate."
She stared at it, void of emotion, held her breath without realizing it—until her body finally forced her to exhale.
Then, she glued her son's poster over it.
Over all of them.
And moved on to the next pole.
The next tree.
Another wall.
Another street corner.