You stare at the old notebook in your hands, your throat tightening with every line.
Every sack of cement. Every brick. Every pipe. Every stove. Every bag of beans. Every medicine bottle. Every repair to the clinic roof. Every school desk. Every peso is written down in Santiago’s crooked handwriting.
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Pause
00:16
01:31
Mute
But the last pages make no sense.
The numbers climb higher than the money you sent from Chicago. Much higher. Materials, medical beds, security doors, solar panels, water tanks, medicine, legal fees. The final two years look like somebody poured money into the refuge from a source you never knew existed.
You lift your eyes to Santiago.
“Where did the difference come from?” you ask again. “And why are you sleeping in the pigsty?”
Santiago looks away.
That is when you understand the answer is worse than theft.
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