The ride to La Quebrada del Sol is long enough for doubt to grow teeth. The road shimmers with heat, and the hills breathe green in the distance, but your carriage feels like a small, sealed box of tension. Nahuel walks tethered behind, feet striking the dust, chains biting his wrists, and he never once drops his head. Your driver keeps glancing back, nervous, as if the man might turn into a demon the moment you stop looking. Halfway, you order the carriage halted near a stand of shade, and your own attendants look at you as if you’ve lost sense. You take a water skin and approach Nahuel, feeling a dozen stares pinning your back. You offer the water, and he accepts it without scrambling, without the animal desperation people expect. He drinks with measured dignity, then meets your eyes again. “Thank you, señora,” he says, and the word señora hits differently than amo ever could, because it acknowledges your station without surrendering his humanity.
“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” THEY WARNED YOU. YOU BOUGHT HIM ANYWAY… AND THAT NIGHT YOU LEARNED WHY MEN WOULD RATHER BURN THEIR SILVER THAN KEEP HIM CLOSE.
