Rosa has a key
Maria was fine. What changed is that everyone knew before lunch.
Emily calls. No answer. So she calls Rosa, next door, who has had a key for nineteen years. Rosa walks over. Maria is at the clinic for a flu shot. Her phone is on the kitchen counter, where she left it.
Not an emergency. A Tuesday.
Two houses side by side in late-morning light with a path between them, and Rosa mid-step on the path. Her messages float to one side: Maria is not home, her car is gone, and it is probably the flu-shot appointment — then, later, that she is back and sends her love. Three small portraits of Emily, Rosa and Daniel sit low in the frame, Daniel furthest away.