Imelda tells the officers at the Department of New Arrivals that she has no other family here. Except her parents, she says, but she doesn't feel like she needs to live with them. She'd survived this long without their help, anyway.

"Well, what about brothers or sisters?" one of the officers asks her, looking at her in a tentative way.

She holds his gaze with her arms crossed, her expression bland, leaning up against his unorganized desk laden with papers. "My brothers are in the Land of the Living, señor," she states, staring at the abstract painting that hangs by the door. "And I have no sisters."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "No extended family?"

Imelda shakes her head. She turns back to him. "Not that I know of."

"What about your husband?"

Imelda widens her eyes, uncrosses her arms. Her mouth hangs open. She stands like this for a few seconds before squeezing her hands to tight fists and glaring. "I don't know what your talking about," she says evenly, suprised at how easy it has become to stop her voice from shaking at the mention of Héctor.

The officer frowns, reaching up to scratch his messy hair. "But I thought you--"

Imelda holds up her hand, shakes her head. "I've never had a husband before."

Judging by the way the officer glances to the left at his desk for a moment, to what is sure to be Héctor's file layed out on the space in front of the large desk chair, Imelda guesses that he doesn't really believe her lie. Imelda braces herself for the argument and yelling that is sure to come for lying to him, already giving him her fiercest stare.

But instead of snapping he just looks at her with an impish expression. "You're sure you've never heard the name 'Héctor Rivera' before?"

She can feel the bones of her body twitch with this question, and she looks down at the scuffed floor shield the anger in her eyes. "No. I've never heard of him," she says coldly.

"No?"

She shakes her head again. "No. Never heard of him."

The lie nips at her no-longer-existing heart as the seconds pass in silence. The officer narrows his eyes at her as she turns to leave.

Imelda puts her hand to the doorknob, but before exiting officially, she sends another frosty look over her shoulder at the officer.

"Like I said, señor: I don't have any family here, much less a husband."

She feels his suspicious look at the back of her neck as she shuts his door behind her, struggling more than usual to keep her welling tears at bay as she thinks of the memory of her and Héctor's wedding.

She sees him later that week, and it feels weird. It looks weird. The way that she sees him is both new and old alike. And it hurts. A lot.

He's sitting in the plaza, leaning up against one of the benches that surrounds the stone fountain in the middle of the path, the water splashing down on his closed eyes and his neater than normal hair, which he seems to enjoy. His jacket is unbuttoned, no shirt underneath, mismatched patches in the jacket's sleeves. A frayed red scarf hangs loosely around his neck, tied in a knot. His beige pants are kept up by black suspenders, the right pant leg slightly torn so that Imelda sees the thin band of tape that wraps around his leg. He wears no shoes. A roughly built guitar sits in his hands, his fingers experly plucking away at the strings like it takes no effort.

And, of all expressions he could have, there's contentment on his face, mixed with a frown only he is capable of.

It stabs Imelda in the ribs just staring at him, and she finds herself snarling, "How dare you."

She doesn't expect him to hear, doesn't want him to, but even though he doesn't have his big ears anymore, his hearing is still wide-ranged. One eye opens, the music abruptly stops, and he freezes. His head whips in her direction, causing the water from the fountain to splash on him even more, so that he jumps up in suprise and chokes, dropping the mangled guitar at his bare feet as he sputters and coughs.

Years ago Imelda would've been fighting to hide a giggle; now she just glares at him, charging up to him and grabbing him by his necktie, pulling him down to her eye level.

"Héctor."

She releases him and watches as his gaze becomes confused for the briefest moment, then melts to unmistakeable happiness. He warps his arms around her and lifts her up off the ground, squeezing her twirling her around like she'd seen him do to his toys a few times when he was younger.

When he sets her down, Imelda sees a wide grin spread across his face. "I've missed you so much, Imelda!" He lets out a loud grito that echoes across the plaza streets and causes heads to turn. He squeezes her again, kisses her cheek with very familiar excitement. "I'm so glad to see you!" He says it like he's greeting Ernesto.

Imelda feels her hands, her whole body, twitch at the heat of his mouth on her face. Before she realizes she's doing, she reaches down to her ankle, unlaces her boot, and raises it, whipping it across his smiling face in one swift strike and watching as he lets go to caress to his own cheek, falling backwards with a pained groan.

She bends down, puts her boot back on, and leans in, her face mere inches from his face. She ignores how much this moment reminds her of her dream of her slapping him as she grabs his hands, moving them from his now slightly cracked cheek to his lap, where she curls his fingers into fists and pushes them at him.

"Stay away from me, Héctor."

His eyes are wide with fear and confusion, already starting to water. Imelda backs away from him and snorts in disgust, hardly able to believe that years ago, she was able to feel his pain whenever he cried and give him sympathy.

He slowly stands up, grabs the guitar he had earlier, and gives her a tearful nod, his hands tightening around the guitar's neck and snapping the strings. Imelda watches as he heads in another direction. She raises her fist and growls, sending him a glare that she hopes sets fire to his bones.