Luis's Point of View
The hardest part wasn't the lying. Lying was easy. Lying was natural. Lying was like breathing, and after eighteen years of silence, I'd had plenty of time to perfect the art of silent observation, of listening to people say things they shouldn't say in front of the boy in the wheelchair. Of letting them forget I was there.
The hardest part was smiling.
Smiling when I didn't mean it. Laughing at jokes I didn't find funny. Saying "good morning" like I cared who lived through the night. That was the real hell. Apparently, Mateo, sweet, soft, always-helpful Mateo—had been something of a people-pleasing golden retriever.
Everyone loved Mateo. No one was afraid of Mateo. The pack adored his boring predictability. So when I stepped into his skin; his face, his life, his goddamn tone—I didn't inherit just his memories. I inherited his obligations.
