RENATO MARINO We got downstairs and none of the kids were there.The air was thick—like grief had a scent, like mourning seeped into the tiles, the walls, the fucking bricks of this place. It didn’t matter that the sun was up. There was no warmth in this house today.Marcelo was already outside, waiting by the fountain. His hair was messy, his shirt half-buttoned, like he hadn’t even tried to look presentable. In his arms was the dog, Tim, shivering, limp.“He's not okay,” he said, gently setting the dog down on the marble floor.I watched the sick body twitch, once, then go still again. His breathing was shallow. His eyes unfocused. That loyal mutt that had barked at every goddamn guest, that had growled at strangers and followed Chocolate around like a shadow… was now barely holding on.I swallowed the tightness in my throat and glanced at Marcelo.He was crouched by the dog again, rubbing his ears, his mouth twisted in that same stubborn grimace he wore when something actually got
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