The rain pounded the windshield with a relentless rhythm, a drumbeat that Eduardo Morales had grown accustomed to on his long drive through the countryside. His fingers tapped distractedly on the steering wheel of the car, in time with the water and the windshield wipers. He almost allowed himself to enjoy the moment. For once, there was no luggage room, no assistant calling for updates, no contract to sign. Only the road, the rain, and the constant breathing of his most precious cargo in the back seat.

Eduardo adjusted the rearview mirror and let his gaze fall on the baby, safely strapped into his car seat. His son. Eight months old, with his cheeks flushed from his sleepless nights, his fists pressed against his chest. Even with the storm outside, the child’s face was a haven of serenity. The image melted Eduardo like nothing before. Behind the corporate tycoon’s ruthless reputation was a father who would do anything to protect this little boy.

The smell of wet earth seeped through the ventilation vents. It transported him to the countryside: bare feet, mud puddles, running through the fields as the rain fell like cats and dogs. He smiled at the memory. Who would have thought that the barefoot boy from a poor village would become a man with a luxury car, a millionaire, returning to those same rural roads with his own son? Life had a twisted mood.

The curve in front of him was steep. He lifted his foot off the accelerator. That’s what happened.

A  deafening crash  . Then another. Tires exploded, rubber shredding. The steering wheel jerked violently as the car swerved. Eduardo’s chest tightened. His heart pounded. He struggled to gain control, but the steering wheel jerked like a beast in its power. The rear pedals gave way, and the sedan began to skid on the slippery pavement.

—No… no… no, —he mumbled between his teeth, trying to stabilize the vehicle. The rain-slicked road gave him away.

From the back seat came a piercing scream: his son, startled awake by the chaos. The baby’s cries pierced Eduardo like knives. All he could think of was to  kill him alive, to kill him alive  .

The car spun, the metal screeching against the asphalt. The car tilted, rolled. The glass shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. Eduardo’s body slammed into the safety glass, his ribs wrenching from the pressure. A sharp pain ran down his forehead, where something sharp cut him deeply. The baby’s screams mingled with the monstrous screech of twisting steel as the car rolled over, twice, and then landed upside down with a gruesome crash.

Silence fell. A suffocating silence, soaked by the rain.

Eduardo dangled from the security camera, his head throbbing and blood dripping into his eyes. His limbs struggled to breathe. He turned his head, his vision blurred, and through the broken glass he saw his son crying in the overturned seat. Alive. Terrified. His small body trembled in the straps.

Rage whipped through Eduardo’s arms. He fumbled with the buckle, cursed when it jammed, then it came loose and he fell onto the broken glass. His chest screamed with pain, but adrenaline drove him on. He dragged himself to the back seat. “Daddy’s here… I’m here, my love,” he cried in a hoarse voice, though his voice was shaking. His hands shook as he undid the straps and hugged the baby.

Outside, the rain fell in torrents through the remaining veins. Eduardo staggered to his feet, clutching the boy. Blood stinged his eyes, his ribs burned with every breath, but none of that mattered. The baby’s heart pounded against his chest. Alive. Alive.

He stumbled out of the rubble and into the pit, his shoes soaking in the mud. The road was deserted, endless in both directions. If help, if help. Only the echo of the rain and the pounding of his heart. His knees buckled. He fell to the ground, landing hard on the soggy earth, clutching the baby tightly.

“Someone please,” the night cried. But the storm swallowed up her plea. Darkness closed in on her vision.

His last vision before he lost consciousness was of small, bare feet splashing through the puddles toward him.

The girl in the hut

Lapa Silva was seven years old, and survival had sharpened her hearing. She knew the sound of trucks carrying food to the city, the rattle of motorcycles that sometimes meant danger, the muffled shouts of men who lingered too long near her shack. This sound was nothing like that. The explosion on the road made her flinch so much that she dropped the lump of wood she was carrying. The ensuing crash made the thin planks of her house vibrate.

He ran toward the broken door, the one with no glass, only rain dripping down the frame. The storm obscured everything, but he could just make out a dark, tinted figure near the curve of the road. His pulse quickened.

“Pedro,” he shouted over his shoulder to the boy crouching on the dirt floor with pieces of wood, “stay inside!”

Her five-year-old brother looked at her with wide eyes, but didn’t argue. When Lopa did that, he knew he shouldn’t move.

He put on his torn sandals and ran out into the rain. The mud stuck to his feet, his clothes soaked him at once, but he ran harder. Something inside him told him that he wanted her out there, he needed her now.

Upon arriving at the scene of the accident, his heart sank. A man lay collapsed in the mud, his forehead covered in blood, clutching a crying baby.

“Sir!” she cried, kneeling beside him. He didn’t move. His body was heavy, trembling slightly with shallow breaths, but his arms didn’t let go of the boy’s.

The baby’s face was red with fear, his tiny body trembling in the storm. Lapa’s chest tightened. She brushed the baby’s wet hair away from his forehead with gentle fingers. “Shh, baby. You’re okay. I’ll help you.”

He shook the man’s shoulder. Nothing. His head hung limply.

Lapa bit her lip and then straightened her thin shoulders. She had made difficult decisions before. She couldn’t let them go. With the strength of desperation, she pulled the man’s arm around her small shoulders and helped him to his feet, step by step, staggering. He weighed an enormous amount. The baby cried louder. Her legs burned, her chest ached, but she kept going.

It seemed like eternity before we reached the hut. Pedro stood at the door, his eyes wide open.

“Help me!” she cried. Her brother grabbed the door, holding it open as she half-dragged, half-carried the man inside. She settled him on the thin mattress she shared with Pedro. The baby cried louder until she picked him up. “Shh, get him, I’ll have you.” She rocked him gently, holding his small body against her chest.

Pedro was rolling nearby. “What are you?”

Lυaпa looked at the man’s bloodied face; something about him reminded her. “I don’t know,” she said in a low voice, “but I need you.”

What a face she knew

That night dragged on forever. The rain pounded on the tin roof, water dripped onto rusty pans, and Lapa lay awake, watching the baby. She had collected powdered milk from the pit of the pantry, mixing it with boiled rainwater. The baby gulped eagerly and finally fell asleep. The man lay awake, breathing irregularly but steadily.

As dawn crept through the cracks in the boards, Lapa looked at his face under the lighted roof. He was younger than he thought, perhaps in his early twenties. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his expensive clothes caked with mud. He didn’t belong in a place like this.

A pang startled her. She ran to the small tin box under her bed and pulled out the crumpled newspaper she had found weeks ago. The front page showed a so-called businessman with his quote cut out of his hand. He held the photo up to his face. Her heart leapt. It was him.

Eduardo Morales.

The same man who, months earlier, had stopped his elegant black car on the sidewalk where she and Pedro were begging for food. The man who had bought them bread, chips, and milk. The man who had knelt before her and said,  “You deserve good things in life. Don’t forget that.”

It made his throat tingle. He hadn’t forgotten. Not even once.

He returned to his side and took his cold hand. “Mr. Morales,” he whispered in a trembling voice, “you saved us once. Now it’s my turn.”

Wake up

Hours later, Eduardo woke up. His head was throbbing as if it were splitting in two. His ribs were screaming with every breath he took. He struggled to sit up and almost collapsed immediately. “The baby,” he croaked.

“Okay,” said a small voice.

Eduardo turned his head and blinked through the crowd. A girl, thin as a horse, was sitting next to him with her son. The boy was already clean, wrapped in a faded towel, asleep on his shoulder. Relief flooded him with the force that burned his eyes.

“You… saved us,” he gasped.

The girl nodded, shyly but firmly. “My name is Lớa. This is my brother, Pedro. You had an accident. I brought you here.”

Eduardo looked around, disoriented. The shack was empty: wooden walls with metal patches, dirt floors, dilapidated furniture. Poor, but clean. Hospitable.

—You’re just a kid, —mυrmυró—. How…?

Lυaпa lifted her chin with silent pride. “When you don’t have a choice, you learn to be strong.”

Something in his eyes struck him. He frowned, searching his memory. “I know you.”

Lớa looked down. “You once gave us food in the city. You told us we deserved good things.”

The memory hit him hard. The witch doctor, his brother by his side. He’d almost forgotten, lost in his worries and obligations. And yet, there she was, returning his kindness tenfold.

Eduardo extended his trembling hand toward her, but he did, embarrassed by the dirt and blood covering his skin. “My God, help me,” he gasped, “how can I ever thank you?”

—No need, —Lệa said simply. —Let’s take care of each other as best we can. That’s all.

Pedro timidly came forward with a cup of water. “For you,” he said.

Eduardo drank; the warm water seemed like salvation to him. He looked at the two children—his unlikely saviors—and something moved inside him.

I didn’t have anything. However, I had given everything to him and to his son.

PART 2 – SHADOWS ON THE ROAD

Eduardo Morales spent the next two days submerged in grief. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw Lapa moving around the hut with a determination much older than his seven years. She fetched water, changed the cloth squeezing his forehead, and rocked her baby when he cried. Pedro, small but alert, helped in any way he could, covering the baby with funny faces or carrying pieces of wood to keep the fire going.

Eduardo, who had built skyscrapers, negotiated multi-million dollar contracts, and betrayed co-ministers, felt humiliated by the papal competition of two broken children. He owed them not only his life, but also that of his son. That realization comforted him and tormented him at the same time. He was used to control. Now, everything was in his little hands.

By the third morning, his head was clearer. He managed to sit upright on the edge of the mattress, where his ribs were still burning. Lapa was crouching nearby, mending her battered wrist with a thread pulled from a sack. Pedro was sitting with his legs crossed, with the baby asleep on his lap. The scene, simple and domestic, seemed surreal to Eduardo.

He cleared his throat. “Tell me about yourselves,” he said in a low voice.

Lυaпa’s hands stopped, picking up the needle stuck in the cloth. She looked up, caυtelosa.

“There isn’t much to cover.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He exchanged a look with Pedro before speaking. His voice was firm, but tinged with something Eduardo recognized: an old pain, worn thin by having repeated it too often.

Our father worked at a company in town. He came home late, always married, but he was kind. One day he lost his job. He said I accused him of stealing money, but he said no. After that, he drank more. He fought with Mom. Then… he left. He didn’t come back. A week later, Mom left too. She said she’d find a job. She never came back.

Eduardo’s stomach tightened. “How long has it been?”

“Two years and three months,” exclaimed Pedro, proud to show off his math knowledge.

Eduardo exhaled slowly. Two children, beaten down, had survived alone in the shack for more than two years. He looked around—at the patched-up roof, the dirt floor, the recycled scraps that served as furniture—and felt a painful tremor in his chest.

And no one helped you? No neighbor? Niпgυпa family?

Lớa shrugged and looked back at the doll. “People look away. It’s easier.”

Eduardo closed his eyes briefly. He knew the truth. The rich looked away from the poor; the poor, from the burdens of others. He had done it himself too many times.

But more.

The van that returned

That afternoon, as Llapa hung wet rags on the soiled rope outside, she froze. The rain had stopped, but the sound of the engine was still clearly audible in the dry air. A truck. White, faster than most of the vehicles that rattled along these roads. It slowed down as it approached the curve where Eduardo’s car had crashed.

His friends screamed. He crouched behind the tree and looked out.

The van passed once. Then again. On the third turn, it slowed almost to a minimum. Two men in the back were staring at the road, their heads turned and their gaze penetrating.

Lapa’s heart was beating strongly. He had lived long enough on the streets to recognize hunters when he saw them.

He ran back to the cabin and entered through the door. “Pedro, come inside! Mr. Eduardo, there are men waiting!”

Eduardo stiffened immediately. He had been feeding the baby with the improvised bottle that Lapa had prepared. Now he put it aside and stood up, all his muscles taut despite his injuries.

“What kind of men?” His voice was low and loud.

Uпa fυrgoпeta. Coпdυceп slowly, looking at everything.

Eduardo’s mind sped up. He remembered the loud explosion of his pistols, the perfect distribution of the spikes on the truck. It hadn’t been a coincidence. Someone had set a trap. And if the truck was still moving now, it meant the trap had failed and the hunters had returned to finish what they had started.

He swallowed his anger.  Someone tried to kill me. With my son in the car.

“Do you have somewhere to hide?” he asked quickly.

Lapa nodded, eyes wide but steady. “We dug a hole under the ground when we saw it here. For the storms.”

“Show it to me. Now.”

The hole under the hut

The children moved quickly. At the edge of the hut, Lapa lifted a loose plank. Beneath it was a narrow space, just high enough for an adult to crouch. Dry earth covered the floor; inside were some candles and jugs of water.

Pedro puffed out his chest. “We did it ourselves. No one can see it.”

Eduardo stared, amazed by his foresight, and then forced himself to move. He held the baby to his chest and settled into the space. The children followed, closing the board over them, leaving only a breeze.

Darkness enveloped them. All Eduardo could hear was the rapid breathing of the children and the faint sighs of his son sleeping in his arms.

Then footsteps were heard. Heavy, dull. Voices outside, muffled but audible.

“Are you sure this is the place?” the man asked.

The tracks led up here. Someone dragged something heavy.

Eduardo’s pulse was pounding. He was right on top. He squeezed the baby harder, praying that he wouldn’t wake up crying.

The men broke into the hut. The boards creaked. Something scraped against the floor as they searched.

—There’s nothing here. Just junk.

“Check everywhere.”

The minutes dragged on for hours. Lopaa’s small hand gripped Eduardo’s in the darkness. He squeezed it, promising her the silence that he wouldn’t let anything happen to them.

Finally, the footsteps faded away. The engine revved. Silence returned.

They waited another half hour before daring to leave. When Eduardo moved the board away and went out, the cabin was in disarray, with objects strewn everywhere. Whoever he wanted to be, he had searched everywhere and would return.

Lớa looked at him, pale. “He’ll be back. He always does.”

Eduardo nodded sadly. “So we have to be prepared.”

Revelation

That night, Eduardo stayed awake while the children slept, cuddled up with the baby. He turned everything over in his head. He had enemies, yes: competitors, rivals, people who hated his power. But who knew his exact travel plans? Only a few: his secretary, his chauffeur, his wife. His closest collaborator…

Uп пombre hit him like ice water.

Roberto Saпtaпa.

His partner lasted more than a decade. The man who was the godfather of his son. Impossible trust.

Lυaпa moved to his side. “He looks angry, sir.”

He forced a smile. “I was just thinking.”

Two moments later he said in a low voice, “When I got back to your car after the accident, I saw papers. Names, numbers. But when I came back the next day, it was gone.”

Eduardo’s gaze sharpened. “Names? What names?”

I remember what. Roberto… something.

He took his breath away. “Saпtaпa?”

She nodded.

The pain in his stomach turned into certainty. Roberto had set a trap for him. The nails in the road, the swerving van, the missing documents… everything was pointing toward him.

He closed his eyes, rage boiling in his ribs. The betrayal burned more than any wound.

He looked at Lapa and Pedro, then at his sleeping son. He had saved him by giving him away. Roberto, the man he had trusted the most, had tried to erase him.

No more races.

“We’re not going to hide,” mυrmυró—. Let’s fight back.

The hunter’s smile

Two nights later, while Pedro slept and the baby was gently cradled in Lapa’s arms, Eduardo limped to the door of the shack. The rain had finally stopped. The world smelled of damp earth and pine needles.

A figure remained standing on the curve of the road, illuminated by the light of the road.

Roberto.

If you’re an old friend. If you’re a traitor. Stand up, drag it, with your hands in your pockets, like a man waiting for a taxi.

Α Edυardo’s blood ran cold.

“Edυardo,” Roberto called softly, his voice carrying in the night’s silence. “You’re alive. I admit it, I’m impressed.”

Lapa approached Eduardo, holding Pedro’s hand. The baby moved, moaning.

Roberto’s smile spread, smooth as oil. “But you should have stayed dead.”