Through the laundry-room window, I could see the washing machine. It was running.
“Sofi?”
She jumped so hard she nearly knocked the phone into the basin. When she saw it was me, her face did something I’ll never forget. It wasn’t relief. It was fear. She looked past me toward the driveway, as if checking who else had come.
“Papá. You’re not supposed to be back until Sunday.”
“The job got pushed. What are you doing out here?”
She looked down at the jeans in her hands. “Just finishing the laundry.”
“There’s a machine running right there.”
“That’s for the towels and sheets,” she said quickly. “Tía Patricia said those have to be done before they get back. I do my clothes out here.”
“Who told you that?”
She didn’t answer. She reached for the next shirt in the pile, and as she did, the sleeve of her T-shirt slid up.
