All of them repeating facts, phrases they couldn’t bring themselves to believe yet. Shot dead. Broad daylight. Cold blood. She understood, finally, when one of the nurses turned to her at the doorway, shaking her head and holding out her hand, inviting Milagros to share in the shock. Those not crying or embracing watched the black-and-white TV on the wall. Kuya, the former senator, facedown on the airport tarmac, steps from the plane that had flown him home.
