I tried the door, but it was locked. Pounding on it got me nowhere. Neither did calling for Carlos, but then the boy showed up, put his finger to his lips to silence me and rushed me out of the building.
Now that we’re outside, he speaks to me in Spanish, but I don’t have a clue what he’s saying.
“Juanito?” I ask. “Are you Juanito?”
He stops and turns, and his serious face splits into a grin. “Sí, soy Juanito.” He bobs his head, as if I just did him some great honor by knowing his name. He rattles off something else, but all I catch is “Carlos.”
“Where is Carlos?” I ask. I’m more than a little disappointed to be rescued by the boy instead of the male who marked me last night. It’s stupid, but I feel abandoned. I need to see him. We need to talk about the fact that he marked me, and wha
