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Diego had written down the names of injured workers.
One lost two fingers.
Another suffered permanent damage to one leg.
A third person had fallen from a second floor.
The company had forced them to sign private agreements.
On another page he had written:
If something happens to me, it doesn’t end with me.
I had to close
the notebook.
“He knew,” I whispered.
Vicente did not answer.
—I knew I was in danger.
-Yeah.
—And he continued.
Vicente looked at the pages.
—Because 17 men depended on someone not looking the other way.
I cried.
For two years I had thought that Diego had died due to bad luck.
Then I thought he had died saving Vicente.
The truth was even more difficult.
My husband had died after trying to prevent other men from ending up like him.
The following months were slow.
There were no miracles.
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