I broke into a house in Coyoacán to steal, but found a blind girl tied to a chair. She whispered, “Did my mom come back to sell me again?” I decided to steal her back instead. As we reached the front door, heavy footsteps echoed from the dark hallway, and a voice growled, “Who is in there?”…

of suffocatingly sweet floral perfume—a desperate olfactory attempt to mask the underlying stench of moral decay.

“Milagros, my sweet,” she sang out, the artificial syrup in her voice dripping with underlying menace. “Did you maintain your composure today?”

The little girl convulsed against my chest, burying her face into the crook of my neck. I retreated continue reading …