The light in Miguel returns slowly. Héctor's watchful eye has not left the child in the two months he's been with them, and perhaps he notices more than the rest of the family. He knows what to despair is, knows what Miguel is going through while the rest of the family can only sympathize.

They were all privileged with greying hair and stiff joints, something he and Miguel will never experience. Héctor toasted with his friend from a lifetime ago and collapsed, his world going dark and returning transformed. He awoke a skeleton, was pushed through family customs where no relatives awaited him. For years his family was the other outcasts, the others who had no one and came together to form a mismatched community.

Like himself they weren't bad people. Just the ones who were born into a world with no one and left it the same way. Héctor hadn't known his parents well. They died when he was young and passed into the Final Death long before his premature end. This was the misfortune of many of his adopted family members. This had almost been his ending, had he and Miguel not crossed paths.

He knows what it's like to die young and unexpectedly. He left his home with every intent and desire to return to Imelda and Coco, but fate dictated that was not to be. Miguel went to school one day, never thinking that it would be different from any other day. He was going home to a family who loved him when the viper that was fate or bad luck struck.

Be it apart of some divine plan or the unfortunate hand life dealt, Miguel died at fourteen. Little more than a child. The life he'd imagined as he drifted into sleep at night was suddenly forever out of his grasp. Watching his sister grow up, going to her wedding and crying tears of joy and pride, was never to happen. He would never grow into the lanky frame he'd inherited from Héctor. He wouldn't awkwardly court a girl, he wouldn't change the musical world in the land of the living.

Like Héctor he would miss out on so much of Socorro's life. Héctor died too young, leaving behind his daughter. Miguel died even younger, leaving behind his baby sister, who shared Coco's namesake.

The irony of that is so incredibly cruel.

But Héctor has always been an optimist. It took almost a century, but he got the chance to see his little girl again. He missed out on her life, yes, but he'll be there for every moment of her death. He hugs and kisses her every morning, the sheer joy that washes over his face when he sees her still as potent as the day she arrived.

Miguel's wounds will heal in time. Héctor knows this. Yet the hurt remains in the present and every small step the child takes into moving on is a reason for celebration. Every sunny smile, rare as they are, makes Héctor beam. Every time Miguel admits defeat and comes to one of his relatives for comfort is a reason to be thankful.

Seeing him suffer in silence is heartbreaking and they'd all much rather hold him as he cries than pretend everything is okay. Not many of the Rivera's are subtle, however, and the women are loath to pass his room in the night and stand idly by as he sniffles quietly on the other side of the door. But they also understand that barging in and forcing comfort on Miguel isn't the answer, either. Sometimes crying alone is what needs to be done. Imelda wept silently in her room after Héctor died many times, all the while knowing her brothers would gladly comfort her.

His stubbornness is a trait as learned as it is genetic.

Then one night, a small knock, almost too soft and hesitant to be heard, draws Héctor from his bed. Miguel stands on the other side, shifting shyly and looking like he's just made a terrible mistake. And that is unacceptable. Seeking comfort is not something Héctor will let Miguel feel ashamed for and he embraces the boy immediately.

Miguel stiffens and then throws his arms around him. Héctor hums and strokes the boy's hair, hears Imelda stir awake and feels her eyes on them. She says nothing, feigning sleep.

"Come on, mijo, let's take a walk."

Miguel lets himself be led, and Héctor isn't sure if he grabs the child by the hand or if Miguel takes his. Whatever the case he feels a surge of fatherly instinct from the small hand in his own, so similar to how he's imagined holding young Coco's hand would be. Alas, those years are gone and while he's accepted that, the fantasies of what might have been will always persist.

"Papa Héctor?" Miguel asks, voice milky from sleep.

"Yes, chamaco?"

"My leg hurts."

Fear shoots like lightning through Héctor. He does his best to hide it.

"Where?"

Miguel points to the part of his thigh where the knife had plunged. Héctor can't keep a wince off his face. They have made it to the gardens that surround the house and Héctor grabs Miguel's under arms and lifts him, sitting him down on the brick wall that encircles the property. He heaves himself up as well, unsure of how to explain what the feeling is.

"Mijo, do you know what phantom pains are?"

"Like when someone loses an arm and they can still feel it?"

Héctor nods. "Well, sometimes when people die, they can still feel the pain from when they died. I had cramps for months after."

A small "oh," falls from Miguel's mouth and they sit in silence. Héctor is frantically trying to think of a good way to fill the daunting silence when Miguel does it for him.

"Dante!" He cries, jumping from the wall and stumbling as he runs. Héctor follows, confused. The confusion dissipates when he sees what Miguel already has. It's his alejibre guardian, trotting towards him with his tongue rolled out of his mouth and swaying as he moves. Miguel crashes to his knees in front of the animal and hugs him, laughing and crying as Dante licks him happily. "I missed you, Dante!"

The dog yips, colorful body wriggling excitedly. A smile pulls at Héctor's mouth as he watches Miguel reunite with his friend. Miguel's smile is on par with his twelve year olds selves, so bright it's blinding.

Dante jumps on Miguel, who had been on his haunches, and they both fall back. Miguel laughs, sputters as Dante's tongue slicks his face. He halfheartedly pushes at the mutt. Dante sits on his chest, wall-eyes on Miguel.

"I'm glad you're here, boy."

Dante gives no indication he understands his friends words other than barking again and licking Miguel's nose. Miguel grins, sitting up. "Papa Héctor, can Dante have some leftovers?"

The boy's face is as iridescent as the sun. If Héctor was ever going to say no to his grandson, it could never be to that expression.

"Don't wake up the whole house," is his only condition and the boy and his dog take off sprinting. Héctor thinks to himself that things will be easier for Miguel now that his best friend is with him.


It is noticed by all of the Rivera's that Miguel's spirits are much higher now that Dante is by his side. Unlike in life, when Dante was prone to flitting in and out of Miguel's home, the dog hardly strays. A few times he's left in the night, but he's always back come morning.

Wherever Miguel is found, Dante isn't far.

While the alejibre could be dumb as dirt, which Héctor had seen him licking on multiple occasions, Dante has the instincts of a true guardian. So when Héctor, Imelda, Coco, the twins and Miguel are on a Sunday trip to the market and Dante's ears flatten against his head, angry growls slipping past his bared teeth, it's an alarm bell. Miguel stops short, ahead of the rest of his family, and frowns.

"What is it Dante?"

Dante snarls, droplets of spit landing in the dirt. Héctor comes up behind Miguel a second after the shock wears off. His hands land on the boy's shoulders and he's ready to pick Miguel up and run at a moments notice.

Miguel is the one who sees it first, the object that has upset Dante so. On the side of the beaten path is a pile of garbage and amidst it is a slumped skeleton. The man's bones are the stark white associated with the newly deceased, but despite this he looks downtrodden. His clothes are threadbare and gaping with holes, his shoeless feet dirty from walking through the muck of the gutter. His eyes are glazed and he is clearly cracked out.

Héctor can see certainly why Dante feels threatened by this person.

Miguel trembles under his hands and his body pushes back into Héctor's. Images and sensations bombard him. Waving to Rosa, buying a popsicle from a vendor on his way home, gnawing on the stick and wiping the stickiness from his mouth as he chats with one of the men from the local mariachi band. He remembers seeing the time and panicking because he was supposed to be home. He remembers cutting through an alley, a shortcut that would shave a few minutes off his trip.

In the alley was a man, reeking of booze and piss. Miguel paused for a half second, staring at the man, debating. He was motionless, huddled into himself and pressed to the wall. Miguel decided he was probably asleep and stayed close to the opposite wall as he crossed the alleyway.

The man moved suddenly with a speed not fitting of his appearance, and everything after that is a blur. Pain in his leg, laying against the brick wall, his blood pooling around him. He remembers acceptance came easily to him, moments before his vision faded and then returned to a world so different from his own.

Dante's barking breaks Miguel from the flashes of memory and sensation. Fear mounts inside him rapidly and his mouth opens to speak. No words come out. He can't move, can't think.

Dante stalks closer to the man, low to the ground and looking very much like a lion before it pounces on its prey. The man groans, jerks awake on the heap of garbage he's chosen to pass out on.

His hand lands on an empty beer bottle, gripping it.

"Ey, get this Xolo away from me." He slurs, squinting in the sunlight. He looks expectantly at the Rivera's, gaze stopping on Miguel. His head tilts to one side and he frowns, the vague familiarity of the boy apparent but still lost in the oblivion of his broken mind.

He recognizes Miguel, he just doesn't know from where.

Miguel's memory is not so far gone. He speaks unintentionally, the spell of paralazis breaking, and points a shaking finger at the man.

"You," he whispers. "You."

The man struggles to stand and ends up sinking deeper into the bags of foul smelling trash. "I know you, don't I?" He asks excitedly. "From when I was alive? Do you know who I am? They told me my name but that's all they knew. I don't remember anything, chamaco, do you know me?" He's dragged himself from his makeshift bed and is using the wall to stand on misshapen legs that take one step towards Miguel.

Fear and pity twist in Miguel's ribcage. Fear wins out and he backs away, forcing Héctor to move with him.

"You killed me."

That's all it takes to jolt the other Rivera's from their bewilderment and Imelda is shoving past Miguel and Héctor in seconds, a storm of Spanish curses flowing from her mouth. Her shoe is already in her hand and the man leans on the wall, terrified.

"You are the monster who killed my grandson?" Her voice is bleeding edge sharp. Miguel has heard her sound cross, but never furious. Never like this.

"No! I-I-I don't know!" The man stutters, sinking to the ground. He stumbles back, falling over his own quaking limbs.

"You killed my fourteen year old grandson." Imelda says. It's not a question. "Hijo de puta," She raises her shoe above her head.

Miguel doesn't see her land the blow because Héctor's hand covers his eyes and he's pulled away. He doesn't fight Héctor as the man picks him up, cradling him like a baby. Héctor runs, Coco close behind him. Óscar and Felipe do not follow.

Héctor and Coco take him home and the three of them sit in tense silence, Coco's hands grasping Miguel's like a lifeline.

It's a half an hour later that Imelda and the twins return, Dante in tow. Oskar and Felipe are visibly shaken and Imelda is vibrating with rage. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides and strands of hair have fallen out of her bun. Héctor, for the first time, is afraid of what his wife is capable of.

Coco stands and whisks Miguel from the room, Dante close behind them. He goes without protest, gaze on the new shoes Imelda had lovingly made for him.

Héctor rises to meet Imelda, questions building behind his closed mouth, but none leave when his jaw drops.

She wipes the hair out of her eyes and sighs, the coils of anger inside her unraveling. He embraces her.

She numbly says, "he'll be fine."

Héctor doubts that, honestly. He's sure she's broken at least one of his bones, but he can't deny he thinks the man deserves it, even if he didn't remember what he'd done.

"I just…" Imelda starts and stops, unable to continue. Héctor hushes her gently.

"It's okay, mi amor. It's okay." Under his words she melts. Her tears overflow and are dried in his shirt.

"Mama Imelda?"

All eyes snap to Miguel, who looks too small in the doorway. He says nothing more and goes to hug his crying grandmother. She looks down at him, disbelieving. She then returns the embrace, crying harder when Miguel starts to cry with her. Héctor envelopes them both in a hug, joined by Dante, Coco, and the twins.

No one says anything else about the incident. There is no trying to justify what happened. Imelda attacked a man, beat him savagely, and he deserved it. No one would dare contest that. The man murdered a child, their child, and he was lucky Imelda hadn't sicked Pepita on him.

Perhaps Miguel is the only Rivera who feels truly guilty for what happened.

And that's because he got his heart from Coco, who in turn got it from Héctor. But even the father and daughter can't muster much sympathy for the man.


Later that night, lying awake in his bed, Dante asleep on his feet, Miguel's mind runs a mile a minute. Who was the man? Why didn't he remember what he did? Why had he done what he did?

And the question that keeps coming back.

Why do I feel bad for him?

A/N: Chapter edited 3-19-2018