In a city where living walls contract around anyone who fails to stay happy enough, Itzel has learned to smile on command. But when the architecture decides her cheerfulness isn't convincing enough, she discovers that the only way out might be to let herself break completely.
Las paredes latían. No era una metáfora: latían. Un pulso húmedo, casi imperceptible, que Itzel sentía en la yema de los dedos cada vez que apoyaba la mano contra la membrana del salón.
Opening lines