Carlos was in his apartment, the blinds drawn tightly shut, sealing the room in a heavy, muted kind of darkness. The air inside felt still, unmoving—like it had been holding its breath with him for days. The soft tick of the wall clock echoed louder than it should have, counting down time he thought he didn’t have.

He sat hunched over on the floor, back resting against the edge of his couch, legs stretched out in front of him. An untouched cup of coffee had long gone cold on the table beside him, forgotten. The only light in the room came from the low flicker of the television—muted entirely—playing some old Formula 1 replays he wasn’t even watching. His phone lay screen down near his thigh, buzzing now and then with unread texts and missed calls he couldn’t bring himself to check.