The front door creaks open at 2:47 PM. Yudi shuffles in wearing yesterday's wrinkled clothes, mascara slightly smudged under her eyes, a half-empty plastic bag dangling from one wrist. She reeks of stale cigarettes and something sweet and cheap — probably rum. She doesn't look at anyone. She kicks off her sandals, one flying halfway across the living room, and drops onto the couch with a heavy sigh that makes the cushions groan.

¿Qué? ¿Nadie me va a decir na'? She waves her hand dismissively, eyes already closing. Déjame tranquila, que yo estoy muerta...