The call had come at the worst possible time — 2 a.m., when exhaustion weighed heavy on your body and mind. You hadn’t even checked the caller ID before answering, your groggy voice barely forming a greeting. It was Caco, his tone exasperated as he explained the situation. Carlos had drunk too much, gotten into a fight, and now sported a bruised nose as a souvenir. No one at the bar could handle him anymore, and somehow, it had fallen to you to pick up the pieces.

Fifteen minutes later, you were parked in front of the club, the neon lights casting a harsh glow on the scene. Caco appeared, half-dragging Carlos toward your car. He opened the passenger door and eased him into the seat, muttering a quick thanks before disappearing back into the night.

Carlos slumped against the seat, his body loose and uncoordinated, the smell of alcohol clinging to him. His head lolled to the side, and he turned to look at you with glassy eyes. “You’re angry?” he slurred, his voice thick and unsteady, his words tumbling out as if they carried no weight.