Some people are happy that Ernesto isn't exactly escaping suspicion this time around. Others are still just too worried about poor Héctor's condition. But the story continues regardless.

Coco wasn't dumb. She was confused, but not dumb.

Tío Oscar brought her home, but Tío Felipe didn't come. He stayed with Mamá at Dr. Ramírez's house for a little while. And Coco knew that was wrong because her tíos were never apart. It was like waking up one morning and finding the sun had turned blue and everyone started walking around on their hands.

Then Tío Felipe came home and he and Tío Oscar started whispering. They kept their distance from her, so she couldn't hear a word. But she could see their faces. Both of them looked upset, but also sad and scared. They were almost grownups and weren't supposed to be scared of anything. Except Mamá when they made her angry.

People kept coming by all morning and into the afternoon. And most of them didn't even come for shoes. They came to whisper with Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe, asking quiet questions that only seemed to upset them worse. Sometimes one of her tíos would leave for a little while before coming back to tell his brother something, but they never said anything to her.

Coco didn't know what any of them were talking about or why all the grownups kept looking at her with strange expressions. But even if she didn't know what was happening, she didn't like it.

By the time it felt like the thousandth person knocked on the door, she wanted to tell whoever it was to go away and stop making her tíos upset. But when Tío Felipe opened it with a weary expression, both of the twins stiffened in a way that confused her even more.

She kind of recognized the older man and woman, but only because she didn't actually know them. She'd seen them a few times when she was in town with Mamá. But Coco never saw them up close. Mamá would always keep her distance and didn't look at either of them. And they didn't look at Mamá, which was really strange because everyone looked at Mamá because she was the prettiest person in the world. And Coco knew it was true because Papá always said so. But Mamá never looked at them and never greeted them.

Actually, Coco could almost remember a time she'd glimpsed the man when she was out with Papá. Unlike Mamá, who just ignored them and kept her distance, Papá actually steered all the way around the plaza to avoid the older man. He also made sure to keep between Coco and the stranger the whole time, as if blocking her from view. And while Mamá kept her head up and proud as she purposefully ignored either of them, Papá almost cringed the one time he spotted the man.

Coco immediately decided she didn't want these two people visiting today.

They weren't really old. They didn't have lots of wrinkles and white hair, but they were older than Mamá. And their clothes looked fancier. Not really, really, really fancy, but more like Mamá's nicer dress that she saved for church. Her favorite dress that felt extra soft and smooth to the touch. She wouldn't wear it just to visit someone to pick up new shoes.

"Mamá? Papá?" said Felipe in a strained voice, one that cracked and squeaked over the words. "What are—"

"—you doing here?" Oscar continued, his voice breaking just as badly.

Coco narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the strange grownups, wondering what her tíos were talking about. They weren't Mamá or Papá. They weren't even close, though the woman looked a little like Mamá.

"You didn't think we would hear the news?" asked the man. "Rumors spread quickly. And even if Imelda was a disrespectful, disobedient, and rebellious daughter for what she did—"

"Not that sneaking out in the middle of the night to run away and join her is much better," the woman added.

"—that man is still the papá to our grandchild," continued the man. "Regardless of the past, we are not so heartless that we wouldn't be concerned that he might be dy—"

"Don't say it," interrupted Felipe, glancing at Coco briefly even as he cringed. "Please, Papá? Just… don't say it."

Trying to look stern and drawing himself up as tall as possible, Oscar said, "Both of you, Abuelito, our tíos and tías, and even our primos made it clear that you no longer consider our sister to be part of the family when she left. You said that she and 'that músico' weren't part of our family because she chose him even when you didn't think he was good enough for her."

"And she took you at your word. Imelda didn't want anything to do with you before now," continued Felipe. "She never speaks to you. She didn't ask for your help when she started making shoes."

"She always had too much pride and stubbornness for her own good," said the woman.

"Imelda didn't ask for your help because she didn't want it or need it. Not after everything that happened. She didn't even ask us. But we love her and came anyway," Oscar said firmly. "She's still our family."

"So why would you think she would want you here now?" concluded Felipe. "After all that, why now? Why is she family now?"

Looking frustrated with the twins, the man shook his head and said, "Because if the worst should happen, we don't want her, the two of you, or our grandchild to end up on the streets. If the rumors are even half right about his condition, she's going to end up alone and—"

"Coco," Oscar said abruptly, the newest interruption from the twins clearly frustrating both of the strangers, "why don't you go and clean up your room? That would be a big help."

She wasn't dumb. Coco knew that they just wanted her to go away so that they could talk more. Not that she understood what they were talking about currently…

Nobody told her anything. It wasn't fair. Coco's birthday was coming up soon and she would be four years old. That's practically all grown up. But everyone was treating her like a baby. She deserved to know what they were talking about, why her tíos were so upset, and why all sorts of people kept coming by to whisper to them.

Giving her tíos and the latest arrivals one final annoyed glare, Coco stomped off towards her room. Something bad was happening and no one would tell her anything? Fine. She would just wait until Mamá and Papá got home. They wouldn't keep secrets from her.

Margarita shooed her three children out of the kitchen with their simple lunches, the two boys and the young girl knowing better than to get underfoot when their papá had a patient. Their eldest, Rodrigo, would keep an eye on his siblings. And that would let her focus on helping Jorge.

She wasn't a doctor. Not like Jorge. But taking care of people came naturally to her and she'd learned a lot in her fourteen years of marriage to him. She knew that someone who spent all night vomiting needed water and simple foods that would be easy on the stomach. And she knew that a worried family member would need something to sustain her. That was why Margarita found herself preparing both a simple broth and a more hearty stew.

But even as she poured out food into the two bowls, Margarita worried that it was a futile effort. Jorge's expression and a few quiet conversations away from the spare room confirmed her suspicions about Señor Héctor Rivera's prognosis. The man's condition was serious when he arrived and had only grown worse in the hours since. And Jorge didn't behave as if he believed that he would recover.

Héctor's treatment wouldn't heal him. She could see that. It would only ease the symptoms.

And if Margarita and her husband were right, then it was only a matter of time until Imelda Rivera realized the same thing. It was only a matter of time until she accepted what was happening. And it would break the younger woman's heart.

Margarita didn't really know Imelda Rivera that well, but Santa Cecilia wasn't that large of a town. Everyone at least recognized each other vaguely. They also loved gossip and stories to share. And the Rivera family, in their lovely house near the river banks at the nicer end of Santa Cecilia, were quite well off and disowning their daughter for choosing to marry a musician caused quite a stir through the whole town. Imelda loved the orphan músico with all her heart, giving Héctor her name and eventually a child. Their little family was close-knit and full of love. Even her brothers, who kept sending one or the other to the house to ask for updates on the man's condition, clearly cared about Héctor. And losing him would…

Setting both bowls on a tray, Margarita carried them towards the spare bedroom. But when she saw her husband inside, she paused at the doorway. He'd returned with an emptied bucket that he set beside the bed and was currently crouched over the patient.

"I'm giving you a higher dose this time," said Jorge, inserting the needle into his patient. "It might make it harder for you to focus, but the pain should be better for a while. And once this dose takes effect, maybe you can finally get some rest."

"Gracias," Héctor hissed, his voice strained and his breathing labored.

Imelda's hand briefly brushed against the side of his face, the gesture filled with so much love and gentle comfort. She'd been there all the day, helping as much as she could. She kept pushing him to drink as much water as possible even when his stomach rejected it, helped him sit up when necessary, and cleaned up her sweat-soaked and exhausted husband. But mostly she kept him company and reassured him. But she couldn't hide the sadness in her eyes. Nor the tiny hint of fear as she tried to deny and ignore any possibility other than him recovering.

Jorge frowned, studying Héctor's expression carefully. He clearly saw something he didn't like.

"Are you having trouble breathing, Señor?"

"Just," Héctor said slowly, "can't seem… to catch… my breath."

From his expression, Jorge didn't think that was a good sign. Whispering a quiet request to Imelda, the two of them carefully propped up the patient with pillows until they found an angle that let him breathe a little easier. Hopefully he would improve further once the morphine kicked back in again.

"At least you have stopped trying to throw up for the last half hour," said Imelda, pushing back his hair gently. "That has to be easier on you."

Smiling weakly, Héctor said, "Sí. Because there's… nothing left."

Taking that as her cue, Margarita stepped in and said, "Well, you may have to risk it. I have food for both of you." Setting the tray on the bedside table, she said, "The broth is for Señor Rivera. It should help. He needs food to keep his strength up and it should help with the dehydration as well. And it should be gentle on his stomach."

"Gracias, Señora Ramírez," said Imelda. Ignoring her own food for the moment, she picked up his bowl and brought it over to Héctor. "We appreciate this.

"De nada."

Margarita met her husband's eyes briefly before they slipped back out, giving the young couple some privacy. As they closed the door, Jorge leaned tiredly against the wall.

"It is arsenic," he said quietly. "I'm almost certain of it. When I burned some of his stomach contents, the flames smelled briefly like garlic. It's almost certainly arsenic poisoning. I would be willing to give sworn testimony of that and I know that when they test it further, the results will prove me right."

"He's not going to recover from this, is he?" asked Margarita. "And you told his wife?"

Closing his eyes and shaking his head tiredly, he said, "I tried. But Señora Rivera can be… difficult. She refuses to consider it. As if she can force it not to be arsenic poisoning by sheer will." Looking at Margarita, Jorge added, "He's getting worse. The spirit may be willing, but the body is weakening. Even if by some miracle he survives this, it's destroying his organs. He won't have much of a quality of life and will remain sickly and weak before still ending up in an early grave. But honestly… I doubt he'll survive until nightfall."

Margarita glanced over her shoulder, staring sadly at the closed door. That was what she had been afraid of.

That poor man…

That poor woman…

And their poor daughter…

Imelda reached over to the bedside table, pouring a little more water from the pitcher. As the sky grew red from the approaching sunset that she could glimpse out the window, she couldn't deny that it had been a long day. And it left her mind turbulent.

She didn't want to consider the idea that Héctor had been poisoned. Especially not by Ernesto. It chilled her to the bone and horrified her in ways that she couldn't describe. But between Dr. Ramírez's firm belief and Héctor's innocent statement that Ernesto didn't want him to leave, Imelda couldn't ignore the possibility.

But she couldn't understand why. Why would Ernesto want to harm Héctor? The man might be self-centered, egotistical, and with far too much influence on her husband, but Imelda knew that Ernesto's friendship with Héctor was real. She'd seen them both together and seen too much to deny it. She even knew that Ernesto would even keep Héctor safe should anything happen while traveling. They were the closest thing that the two orphans had to family. Even as she hated Ernesto for taking her husband away on that idiotic tour, Imelda never doubted his loyalty and friendship with Héctor.

So why would the man poison Héctor? Why? Because he wanted to come home? That didn't seem like a good enough reason for him to turn against his best friend.

It didn't make sense, so she refused to let it be true. Ernesto didn't poison Héctor's drink. And since he didn't, that meant it wasn't arsenic poisoning and the doctor was wrong. Héctor was just sick. And since she refused to consider that it was poison, that meant he would get over his illness. He would get better. Imelda refused to allow any other possibility.

As long as she didn't think about it, as long as she didn't give any other option a chance to exist, then everything would be fine.

Héctor would be fine.

If she told herself enough times that he wasn't poisoned by Ernesto for no reason, that the doctor was wrong about it being caused by arsenic, and that Héctor would be fine, then she would believe it was true. It would be true.

But she could admit that he didn't seem to be doing that well at the moment. The broth didn't help much. He managed a few sips at a time, taking it slow so his stomach didn't reject the food. But Héctor had grown weaker over the course of the day. His clammy skin had gained an almost ashen tone, making the dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes stand out more. Chills shook his body at random and his fingers dug into the cloth covering his stomach, never completely relaxing just like the pain never completely vanished. His eyes were glassy when he managed to keep them open, either from the pain or the drugs keeping the worst at bay. And even with the pillows propping him up to make it easier for him, his breathing remained fast, strained, and an increasing struggle.

But he would be fine. He would be fine. Yes, he was exhausted, in pain, and short of breath even as he lay perfectly still, but they could get past this. In a day or two, they would take him home and everything would be fine.

"Héctor," she coaxed gently. "You need to drink some more water."

He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze dully. Imelda pushed down the way her insides seemed to squirm at the sight. Her husband shouldn't be this still, this listless, and this quiet. He was energy, movement, music, and life. This was all wrong.

But he would be fine.

He promised.

"I can't," said Héctor, his voice faint and breathless. "Lo siento."

Bringing the cup over to his face, Imelda said, "Come on. You heard the doctor. You need to keep drinking if you want to get better."

"I can't."

His voice cracking over the words made her freeze. The tone felt like a stab to her heart. It was too tired, too weak, and too fragile. He sounded broken. Broken, on the brink of desperate tears, and with a hint of despair. It made her really look, taking in his face properly.

His lips, dry and cracked, didn't hold his earlier comforting and reassuring smile. His eyes were dull and empty. Lifeless. Hopeless. It was like something vital in him was fading away. She could see fear in his expression, behind the exhaustion and pain that seemed to consume her husband. But it was more than him being afraid.

Héctor looked like he was giving up.

The two small words contained far too much information. He wasn't just saying that he couldn't drink any more water. His voice was too tired, cracking from hopelessness, and yet apologetic. It was more than not being able to manage any more water. Héctor was saying he couldn't take any more. He was saying that he couldn't handle the pain, misery, and sickness that had plagued him all day and kept growing worse with no sign of relief. He was saying that he couldn't get better, no matter how much water that he tried to drink. He was saying he couldn't hold on.

And that terrified her. Imelda shivered involuntarily at the broken look on her husband's face. It was wrong. It was completely wrong and reminded her too much of that dark and haunting fear that kept whispering at the back of her mind. The new fear, the one that replaced the worry that he wouldn't want to come home and now made her guilty to even remember. A fear of a more permanent separation. A fear that she refused to allow to manifest.

He would be fine. Everything would be fine.

Please don't let this happen. Please.

Was this her punishment for doubting him, even for a moment and only in her own mind? Was this her punishment for letting her frustrations with the increasingly-long tour suggest the idea that Héctor would ever choose music and fame over his family? Was this her punishment for wondering what if?

No. Imelda refused to accept it.

Héctor would be fine. He was sick, but he would get better. They couldn't give up.

"You can," she said, fear becoming anger at the situation and giving her words a sharper edge than she intended. "You must."

His eyes closed briefly, his fast and unsteady breathing growing even less steady as he shivered. When he managed to look at her again, Héctor was blinking rapidly. As if trying to fight back tears of pain, misery, and despair.

"Imelda," said Héctor. "I want to… I'm just…"

She grabbed his hand, squeezing firmly. She met his eyes, stubborn and unbending. Imelda would make sure that he didn't give up. She would make sure that he got better. She would do whatever it took to make things right.

"Héctor," she said, her tone leaving no room for questions or arguments. "You will drink the water and you will get better. Do you hear me?" Imelda squeezed his hand again. "I won't let you just give up."

He managed to take a few small sips of water as she pressed the cup to his mouth again, but the exhaustion and broken expression hadn't faded. And that left a tightness in her throat and a pain in her chest, sensations that she needed to banish just as much as the look of surrender in his eyes.

"I know you are sick. I know you're tired and hurting. I know it's hard, Héctor," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "But you have to try. You have to hold on even if it's hard."

Imelda leaned over and kissed his brow. His skin was clammy to the touch, but the tiny sound that came from him sounded relieved rather than pained. That made the small gesture worth it.

"Please, Héctor," she whispered. "You have to keep trying until you're better. If you love me, if you love Coco, then you won't give up. If you love us, you have to keep going and hold on."

Even as she spoke the words, Imelda knew it was unfair to say that to him. But it did what she wanted. His eyes, dulled by drugs, pain, and fear, grew brighter and more focused. She saw his resolve strengthen. No matter how weak and tired that he might feel, she could see that Héctor would resist it.

For his family, he would hold on. Those dark fears about what might be happening to him, of how he might leave her in a far more permanent manner would not come to pass. Héctor loved his family too much to hurt them. This time when she asked him to stay, he would. Imelda believed that with all her soul.

Her eyes briefly flickered towards the window, the sky changing colors as the sun continued towards the horizon. It was growing late. She'd been there all the day, watching her husband steadily grow worse. But they must have hit the point where things would finally turn around. There had to be a limit. His sickness would have to ease up soon. He just needed to keep going a little longer.

He would be all right. He would get better. This would pass. He would be all right.

And so Señora Imelda "You Go Home My Way Or No Way" Rivera does what she can to encourage Héctor while doing her absolute best to remain in denial of the very idea that he won't get better. Meanwhile everyone else is pretty much writing him off as a lost cause. The poor guy is having a very bad day.