II. He Should've Known

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At school, Lalo was waiting near the steps with a bag of sunflower seeds and another story.

 

“You hear about the man in San Tobías?” he asked.

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Nico shook his head.

 

“They say he was caught running his mouth. Bragging about something he shouldn’t have. Three nights later, they found his tongue nailed to a fence post. Just the tongue. Nothing else.”

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Lalo grinned like it was a joke. But he kept glancing behind him.

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“Was it Yama?” Nico asked.

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His grin faded.

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“You don’t say his name out loud,” he said. “It’s bad luck. Like inviting him in.”

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Nico said nothing. Just looked out at the road.

 

On the way home, he passed the old bike shop. It had been shuttered since the accident—Pedro Cortés, the owner, found pinned between two trucks just outside town. 

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People said it was a fluke. But someone had left a note at the scene. No one ever said what it said. Only that it was folded clean, and had no name. 

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Nico’s father once told him Pedro had taken something that wasn’t his. A truck route. A favor. Something small. But the price had been large. 

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“He should’ve known better,” was all he’d said.

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That evening, Nico found his father in the kitchen, staring at the sink. 

 

The faucet was dripping. A single stream. Drop. Drop. Drop.

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His hands were raw. Scrubbed past clean. The rag lay on the counter, damp and frayed.

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“You need anything?” Nico asked.

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The man shook his head but didn’t look over.

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That night, Nico stood outside again. Same spot beneath the Saint Michael mural. The spray paint still visible under the dew. 

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The skull stared back like it knew something. He lit a match. Not for light. Just to watch the flame.

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Yama wants to see you.

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He hadn’t heard it spoken. Hadn’t seen it written. It just appeared—uninvited, unwanted—and wouldn’t leave. 

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He didn’t know if he feared it more than he needed it. He only knew it wouldn’t stop. 

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Back inside, his father was already asleep—or pretending to be. The house felt smaller than usual. The walls thinner. The air closer. 

 

Nico didn’t turn on the light. Just sat at the table and waited for the night to pass.

 

He placed a small stone on the table. He didn’t remember where he’d picked it up. Maybe near the church. Maybe the bike shop. 

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It didn’t matter. It was heavier than it looked. 

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He curled his fingers around it. Not for luck. Not for power. 

 

Just because it was something to hold. 

Something real.

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Continue to Part III: At the Threshold

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