It was quick. Almost nothing. But Amparo saw it.
Daniela stretched out her right leg and pushed the stroller with the tip of her shoe.
The wheels rolled. The world tipped.
“Tomás!”
Amparo ran the way she had never run in her life. The stroller struck the surface and turned over, wheels pointing at the sky, and the baby’s cry broke in half as the water took it.
She did not think. She jumped in fully dressed — uniform, shoes, apron, everything. The cold hit her nose and her mouth and closed over her head. She kicked, found the frame with both hands, hauled it up above her own face and pushed for the edge.
When she came out she was soaked through, and Tomás was coughing and screaming against her chest, alive, furious, alive.
And Daniela was already shouting.
“You dropped him! You dropped the baby in the water! What did you do?”
Amparo stared at her, water running from her hair, unable to understand.
“You pushed him,” she said. Her voice shook. “You pushed him, Señorita Daniela.”
“You’ve lost your mind! I was standing right here — you knocked it in!”
Tomás cried without stopping, small fists gripping the wet fabric of her uniform. Amparo held him tighter, as if she could shield him a second time.
And from inside the house, the front door opened.
