Chapter 2, Scene 2

James entered the house and closed the door behind him. There was no fanfare on his arrival. No wife waiting with a hug and kiss. No children ran to be picked up.

The living room opened immediately off the entryway, dimly lit but fully occupied. The television was on, as usual, at an uncomfortable volume. A telenovela flooded the space with swelling music and rapid Spanish dialogue.

His wife, Marisol, was stretched out along one end of the couch. Her body was angled to accommodate her pregnancy, one hand resting on the curve of her stomach while the other scrolled through her phone. One leg dangled off the couch; the other extended with her foot in her mother’s lap, being casually massaged.

Across from her, Dolores—his mother-in-law—slouched on the other side of the couch, multitasking between the foot massage and gently patting Lucia’s back, asleep and folded against her chest. The toddler’s breath puffed softly against her collarbone, her fist clutching her Abuelita’s blouse.

On the floor, their oldest daughter, Isabella, sat cross-legged with a worksheet on the coffee table in front of her. Her pencil moved steadily through a page of problems, and James noticed how she unconsciously poked her tongue out the side of her mouth—required for concentration.

Next to her, Mateo, the middle child, lay flat on his stomach with a crayon and coloring book. He kept glancing at his big sister, poking his tongue, attempting the same focus.

At the sound of the door, both children looked up briefly—almost in unison—registered their father, and went back to their work without comment.

No one acknowledged his presence.

James stood for a moment, keys and briefcase in hand, taking in the scene. He slipped off his shoes, placed them neatly in their place, and moved past the living room toward the kitchen.

Behind him, his wife called out.

“Your plate’s still warm,” she said. “Enchiladas. In the oven.”

The kitchen was quiet by comparison; the hum of the dishwasher created a hypnotic rhythm. He opened the oven and pulled out a plate covered in foil. He set the oven dial to off, secured the foil over the plate, and carried it with him up the stairs.

The guest bedroom was sparse and orderly. A simple desk against one wall. A twin bed made to perfect hotel standards. He set the plate down, loosened his tie, and retrieved his laptop from the briefcase before setting it up on the desk.

He removed the foil from the plate and opened his email. He ate slowly and mechanically, the sounds of the television drifting faintly up from downstairs.

He didn’t notice at first. Eventually, he saw the notification on his phone, face-up beside him on the desk.

It was the same 702 number.

He clicked the notification.

Just two words:

CODE RED