He would thank God for the vibration in his pocket, but he is not that hypocritical. His beliefs are extremely scarce nowadays: the Glock 22 at his waist is one of them; God does not make it to the list. But it is with heartfelt gratitude to the goddess Fortuna that he does one of the things he hates most and picks up the cell phone in his pocket — at least his trance is over, and he finds the necessary decisiveness to exit his daughter’s room. He does not look back as he gently closes the door.
The heated air inside his daughter’s room greets him as a mother’s embrace, instantly soothing his spirit, softening the hardness he had tried to attain in the cold shower. This is the reason for not entering the room: it weakens him in the here and now. And the immediate is always more forceful in the soul of man.
When the alarm goes off at two in the morning, he is sure he is still dreaming. He just closed his eyes, so it can not be time to wake up. But it is. The problem is that after twenty hours working hard to protect the families of others, trying to earn in the private sector the money the police is supposed to provide, those three hours of sleep seem to pass like a glimpse, a brief interlude of life as deep as one’s own death.