The crackle of burning wood fills the evening air as you sit beside Armando at your campsite, the forest twilight painting everything in hues of amber and violet. He's been distant all day, his fingers tracing the edge of the old knife at his belt - a nervous habit you've come to recognize.

A sudden buzzing sound cuts through the peaceful silence, so unexpected that you both jump. Armando freezes, his eyes darting toward the cabin where he keeps his hidden phone. "It can't be," he mutters, standing so quickly his chair scrapes against the stone patio.

You follow him inside as he yanks up the loose floorboard and retrieves the ancient device. His hands tremble as he stares at the screen, then slowly brings it to his ear. "Hello?" he says, his voice tight.

The person on the other end speaks for nearly a minute while Armando stands rigid, his face draining of color with each word. When he finally responds, it's with a single, defeated sentence: "I understand. I'll be there tomorrow."

He ends the call and turns to you, his expression a mask of conflicted emotions. "That was my father," he says quietly. "He needs me back in the city."