“The good is one thing; the pleasant is another. Both bind the soul. He who chooses the good over the pleasant reaches the end of the journey.”

 

— Katha Upanishad, 1.2.2

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I. The Offering

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They brought the goods at dusk.

 

Two men, shirtless, their skin lined with dust and old scars, lifted the boxes from the back of a pickup and carried them up the church steps like altar boys in some inverted procession. 

 

Inside, it was cool and shadowed. Candles burned at the feet of saints with broken hands.

 

Nico sat in the far pew. He knew what was in the boxes—cigarettes, pills, a plastic-wrapped wad of bills thick as a mango. An offering. That’s what they called it.

 

The cartel moved product through the church now. Less risk. More cover. The priest blessed the crates and passed them along. It made everything seem clean.

 

His father stood near the altar, speaking in hushed tones to the new priest. Not the old one, the one who used to press a thumb to Nico’s forehead and whisper gracia. That priest had disappeared last year. No one had asked where. 

 

This one kept his eyes low and his collar crisp. He never looked at the children.

 

One of the men had a tattoo of Santa Muerte inked across his chest—a robed skeleton weighing hearts. The other wore a silver chain with the Virgin dangling from it, her face darkened by sweat.

 

A girl lit a candle and crossed herself, as if none of it meant anything.

 

The fan above clicked in slow, uneven circles. Behind the altar, the crucifix sagged on its nails. The paint was flaking from Christ’s face.

 

Nico watched everything. He remembered when the church smelled like incense and flowers. When the benches were full and people still sang. 

 

Now, the silence was heavier than the music had ever been.

 

He stood and walked out. 

 

Outside, the sun had dipped behind the hills, turning the sky the color of old bruises. The town glowed dimly—house lights flickering, dogs barking down alleyways, a motorbike sputtering in the distance. 

 

He waited near the wall, beneath a mural of Saint Michael with his sword drawn. Someone had spray-painted over it with a skull and the word respeta. Beneath it, in faded ink, someone had scrawled a name:

 

YAMA

 

Nico didn’t know who had written it. But he’d seen it before—on a back wall of the mercado, on a folded slip of paper someone dropped and never returned for. 

 

He’d asked his father once. The man didn’t answer, just said, “You don’t want to know about him.”

 

They said he was a man, but no one said it with certainty. That he never raised his voice, but people lost their tongues just the same. That one boy came home without hands. That another didn’t come home at all—just the boots.

 

Ten minutes later, his father emerged, wiping his hands with a cloth like he’d touched something unclean.

 

“I told you to stay home,” he said.

 

“I wanted to see.”

 

His father sighed. Looked out at the road. “Don’t say anything about what you saw.”

 

Nico said nothing.

 

“You don’t understand,” the man went on. “These aren’t choices. We do what we have to.”

 

“I know what it is,” Nico said. “It’s not an offering.”

 

His father turned. “Then what is it?”

 

“It’s payment. For being left alone.”

 

That landed like a slap. His father looked down, folded the cloth, and tucked it in his pocket. “You think you’re better than me?”

 

“No,” Nico said. “I think I remember who we were.”

 

His father said nothing.

 

But under his breath, as they turned to walk home, Nico thought he heard him mutter:

 

“Pray he never says your name.”

 

They didn’t talk about it again.

 

The next morning came like all the others—thin light through the curtains, the smell of dust, the sound of a rooster no one owned.

 

Nico ate quietly while his father read the paper. He didn’t look up. 

 

There was an article about a man found near the edge of the canyon. No photo. No details. Just: “body unrecognizable.” 

 

Nico watched his father scan it, pause, then flip the page without a word.

 

The name Yama was never mentioned. 

 

It never was.

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Continue to Part II: He Should've Known

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