THE MIRACLE OF THE STREETS

The flashing red and blue lights of the Barcelona police illuminated the foggy night. Sirens wailed as squad cars swarmed the docklands. El Alacrán, bleeding and broken, was hauled into the back of a police van, his empire of exploitation crumbling to dust. Julian was dragged away in handcuffs, his expensive suit ruined, his reputation destroyed. He would spend the rest of his life in a maximum-security prison, his assets frozen and seized by the state.

As the adrenaline began to fade, the sheer physical toll of what I had just done slammed into my body. My legs, pushed far beyond their limits, suddenly gave out. I began to fall.

But strong arms caught me. Vargas and María were there, lowering me gently onto a stretcher provided by the arriving paramedics.

"You fool," María scolded, though tears were streaming down her face. "You beautiful, stubborn fool. You could have killed yourself."

"I had to walk, María," I whispered, staring up at the night sky. The fog was clearing, revealing a blanket of stars. "I had to."

Sofia climbed onto the edge of the stretcher, her small face streaked with dirt and soot, but her eyes were shining. She reached out and placed her hands over my knees, just as she had done in the restaurant a month ago.

"They hurt now," she said softly.

"Yes," I smiled, coughing slightly. "They hurt a lot. But it's a good hurt."