Maria Teresa did not answer her youngest daughter, her eyes fixed on the empty hallway.
She walked straight into the kitchen and stood before the table.
The gallon of milk they had purchased the day before sat in the center of the wood, its plastic sides warm to the touch.
Jorge sat on the kitchen chair and looked at his sneakers.
“I can get a job at the auto shop,” Jorge said, his voice quiet. “I can drop my morning classes and work the early shift.”
“You are twelve years old,” Maria Teresa said, turning to him. “You will stay in school.”
“We need the money if we have to look for her,” Jorge said, looking up at her with dry eyes.
Maria Teresa stood still, her hand resting on the warm plastic bottle.
The kitchen window was open, and the distant rumble of the city bus on the highway seemed louder than usual.
She did not move to put the milk back in the refrigerator.
She simply stood in the dim light of the kitchen, staring at the warm, unopened bottle of milk sitting on the kitchen table.
