At first, it was a strange sound beneath the rain: a sharp, nervous clucking, different from the usual quiet settling of the chickens. Then a thud. And then… something slipping in the mud.
Doña Jacinta raised her head and listened.
The sound came again. And with it, that instinct women from the countryside know well but can never quite explain. It wasn’t fear.
It was a warning.
She wrapped a thick shawl around her shoulders, grabbed the flashlight hanging by the door, and stepped outside.
The cold wind hit her face. The yard was a dark stretch of mud, grass, and puddles reflecting the trembling light. She walked carefully, her boots sinking slightly with each step. The chicken coop stood near an old avocado tree, a simple wooden structure her late husband had built years ago.
She shone the light forward—and her heart tightened.
The coop door was slightly open.
She was sure she had closed it.
She lowered the beam.
It wasn’t an animal.
It was a piece of fabric… that moved.
The light trembled.
A pale face appeared. Wet. Hair stuck to the forehead. Eyes wide with fear and fever.
A girl.
Very young.
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