The next few weeks will be hectic for me. Lots of things going on and so forth. So I'm uncertain when the next update will be. But at least you get this one. Please enjoy.

Héctor sat on the bottom stair, nearly recovered from his journey so far. It didn't sound impressive to describe. Not unless he compared it to his recent weakness and inability to exert much energy. Compared to even a few weeks ago, this was an accomplishment.

Once, years ago and before Coco's memory frayed quite as much, he could have ran across the entire city without much trouble. He could climb up and down the spiraling towers, from the most modern near the top all the way to the lowest levels of Shantytown. But by the end of Día de Muertos, even lifting his head had been impossible. As slow and annoying as it was to feel so limited, he was starting to appreciate how hard recovering can truly be.

After the family left the house early that morning, he'd slowly managed to change out of the borrowed pajamas and pull on his own repaired clothes. Then he hobbled his way across the room, along the short hallway, and down the stairs before needing to recuperate. And he did it without any help.

Definitely progress.

Resting and giving himself time to recover his strength, Héctor absently noticed that he was scratching at his ribs again. He'd already forced himself to stop scratching at the bindings around his leg at least twice since he made it to the bottom stair. The itching was getting worse, something that he couldn't ignore as easily anymore. At least Dr. García seemed encouraged by the development. And the itching wasn't as unpleasant as the previous aches and pains. But it was certainly annoying.

"This isn't going to get any easier," he muttered to himself as he reached for the cane again.

Honestly, Héctor wasn't completely certain this was his smartest idea. Even with his occasional trip out of the room, under actual supervision after Victoria scolded him for stumbling out to the balcony alone, he never made it very far. But today was the day. He'd been planning this for a while. He wasn't going to turn back now.

He was going to make it to their workshop.

Slowly standing back up, Héctor kept his weight on his good leg, the cane, and the wall. He didn't want a lecture about walking on a broken tibia or for Dr. García to go through with his threat to confiscate his leg. Not to mention that since the fracture was actually healing, trying to walk on it would rebreak the bone where it was starting to knit together. And that hurt too much to risk it.

He edged his way gradually, never leaving the support of the wall. It was a nice and sturdy wall, unlike his own limbs when he pushed them too hard. He liked this wall. It was a good wall. The wall of the front room of the house was now his favorite wall.

Slow and steady, Héctor hobbled along. And with the help and support of his absolute favorite wall, he eventually reached the door and managed to get it open.

The courtyard looked a lot larger than it did from the balcony.

Héctor took a deep breath before leaving the support of the wall. Now would be the perfect time for Pepita to show back up. She would be helpful to lean against while crossing the vast empty distance. Why couldn't that alebrije show up now? She used to appear out of nowhere all the time when he used to try and talk to Imelda in the past, but now the giant terrifying cat wasn't anywhere in sight.

Never mind. He could do this. Just one slightly-wobbling step at a time.

Other than the distant calls of a few alebrijes, he couldn't hear much as he moved forward. The click of bone and the tap of the cane filled the silence of the vast courtyard. And by the time that he made it halfway across, his heavy panting joined the quiet sounds of his steps.

He could do this. His legs were growing shaky and he was struggling to catch his breath, but he could do this. He was past the point of being able to turn back anyway.

His wife wasn't the only one who could be stubborn. If he could fling himself at the dumb flower bridge year after year, then he could keep going a little longer.

By the time he drew near the door to the workshop, Héctor had both hands wrapped tightly around the cane and his entire body was wobbling badly. He could hear his joints rattling and shaking. If his bones were any looser like in the past, he would be a crumbled pile on the ground. Even when he grabbed the door frame and leaned his body against it, his balance improved only slightly.

Definitely not his smartest idea. Right up there with his bridge-crossing stunt involving the van.

He wasn't going to be upright much longer. Héctor could feel it. He wasn't certain if he would collapse on the ground first or pass out from exhaustion while standing. Either one was a possibility. He'd been doing better about not passing out or sleeping all the time, but Héctor recognized the feeling creeping over him. He'd definitely pushed himself too far.

Héctor fumbled for the door, trying to get it open before the risk of cracking his skull open by falling became a certainty. Leaning heavily against the doorframe helped, keeping him upright while he tried to remind himself of how doors were supposed to work. It was a good doorframe. It was a nice doorframe. He hoped the wall in the front room didn't feel jealous, but this was definitely his favorite doorframe. Nice, steady, and comfortable. Very dependable.

He finally managed to get the door to swing open, but he couldn't bring himself to go any further. He didn't want to risk moving away from the support of the doorframe. He suspected that if he tried, gravity would be extra cruel to him and yank his wobbling frame straight down.

Nope. He was staying with his favorite doorframe, propping himself up against it like how Imelda would tuck the broom in a corner when she wasn't using it.

"Héctor?"

Rosita's worried voice was quickly joined by a few others, but she was the one who snagged him. The sturdy doorframe was replaced by the skeleton in a comfortable pink dress. Maybe it was disloyal to the nice and helpful doorframe, but Rosita was even better support. She had arms to help hold him up. And then the twins and Victoria swarmed around him, providing further help.

Héctor allowed them to maneuver his exhausted body into the workshop. He heard someone drag something across the floor before they forced him onto a stool they'd positioned in front of a thick structural post. Héctor sank onto the seat thankfully, leaning back against the post. He closed his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

"What are you—"

"—doing here? Are you—"

"all right?"

"Pobrecito. You look completely exhausted. Did you come out here all on your own?"

"I thought you weren't going to do that sort of thing again."

The flurry of questions and remarks swirled around his skull, but Héctor could barely spare them a thought. His energy was solely focused on staying awake and sitting upright. And the sturdy post at this back was mostly responsible for the latter.

"Give him a moment," said Victoria, breaking through the chaos. "We're crowding him."

Everyone grew quieter, leaving Héctor grateful to his granddaughter. His breathing gradually settled back down. Only then did he manage to pry his eyes open again and see several worried faces staring back at him.

"I could have planned this better," he admitted quietly.

"And what was the plan?" asked Victoria.

That would be difficult to explain. He wasn't completely certain that he knew the plan. It was mostly a collection of half-realized desires.

Come down to the workshop? See if they would let him enter this space or if it would cross the line? Test the limits slowly to see where the boundaries were, figuring out how far he could push before they cast him out once more? Spend time with them while he still could? See Imelda in her element, working at something she was good at and seemed to enjoy?

Wait…

"Where's Imelda?" he asked tiredly.

There was a quick exchange of looks among the various family members. Héctor wished that he could decipher the meaning behind their silent conversation, but he didn't have the energy to try. Keeping awake was tough enough to manage.

No wonder his recovery was taking so long. Every time he gained a little more strength, he burned through it with some type of stunt.

"She and Julio are running an errand," said Rosita finally. "They'll be back later."

Victoria nodded and said, "If you're comfortable resting on the stool, you can stay here and wait for them to come back. We'll help you back into the house this evening."

"Gracias. I… I think staying put is a good idea."

Yes, not moving sounded like a wonderful plan. The comfortable stool under him and the sturdy post against his back felt nice. A wooden beam meant to support the roof shouldn't feel so good, but leaning against it… No, Héctor had no intentions of moving anywhere for a while.

The family slowly drifted back towards their different workstations and he heard the sounds of progress resume. He tried to watch their efforts, but he was too tired to pay close attention. But he could at least appreciate their focus and dedication to their craft. It looked impressive, at least from his angle.

Imelda would be back soon. He just needed to stay awake until then.

"And then we finally managed to send Miguel home," finished Julio, still twisting his hat in his hands as he explained everything to a room full of strangers. "We didn't find out what happened to Señor de la Cruz until a few days later."

"Gracias, Señor Rivera." Señor Luis Salinas, a prosecutor with purple dots along his jawline, gave him a nod of thanks. "The recordings from the Sunrise Spectacular, which the jury were shown yesterday, supports your account of events. And I am certain that the jury appreciates you coming in and describing the actions of the defendant in your own words for the night in question."

Imelda watched as her son-in-law tried to relax. Julio wasn't a coward. He was not even close to one. But certain things made him nervous and anxious. Those things included his mother-in-law, Pepita for some reason, verbal confrontations, and public speaking. He could manage though. For his family, he could and did face those fears.

And she could understand his unease. Even though she was the only person who could be called an audience for the trial, sitting on the empty benches behind the lawyers, the small room gave off a slightly intimidating feeling. There were no windows and the path they took to reach this particular courtroom involved narrow hallways that slipped past all prying eyes. And inside the room, it felt too quiet and enclosed. Even with only a handful of people actually inside the secure and private space, Imelda could feel the tension.

It was a little surprising how few people were involved in a trial that felt, at least to her, to be rather important and large event. To the side sat the small group of random skeletons serving as the jury, silently observing the events. They'd apparently be sequestered away from the public since the trial began. A stern-looking judge was framed on either side by a pair of grim bailiffs. And in addition to Señor Salinas and the defense lawyer listening to Julio, there was the man himself.

Ernesto de la Cruz.

Sitting this close to him left Imelda gritting her teeth. The injuries from the last time she saw him were long gone. The benefits of being well-remembered. All the fractures would have healed in almost no time, his white bones whole and intact once more. But there were at least a few signs that he wasn't as well-off as he was before. His expensive suits were a distant memory. Someone managed to force him out of his tailored clothes and into a striped jumpsuit. The clothes of a criminal. It didn't provide much comfort, but Imelda took some vindictive pleasure in his frustrated expression with the situation.

Another boot to the skull would be more satisfying though…

As Señor Salinas reclaimed his seat, the defense lawyer stood up. Señor Gael Chávez was one of the better ones available and was probably on Ernesto's payroll for decades. And even though he didn't look completely comfortable with his client's crimes, he was still doing his job. The red triangles around his eye sockets made him look rather intimidating.

"Señor Rivera," he began evenly, "I will admit that the evidence against my client is… difficult to dispute. But is it not true that your family would benefit from the defendant being found guilty and that's why you're here today?"

"Objection," interrupted Señor Salinas. "Leading the witness."

"It is relevant to the reliability of the witness' testimony," he said.

"Sustained," said the judge. "Continue, but with caution."

"The crimes of Assault and Attempted Murder of the Living, while both have rarely if ever been pursued, carry both an imprisonment sentence and the surrender of all the defendant's property, belongings, and offerings to the victim's deceased family. Which means as the closest direct relative of the boy, you would gain them, correct?"

Ernesto crossed his arms and glanced over his shoulder, meeting Imelda's gaze with a smug expression. He probably thought that his lawyer would discredit the Rivera family and make the whole mess disappear. He was rich and famous. He must be used to escaping consequences.

But not this time. Imelda would keep her temper and keep quiet, going along with the trial and not giving any of these people a reason to doubt that Ernesto was a lying, stealing, selfish murderer. No matter how much she wanted to smack that look off his face, she would stay still and silent. He wouldn't slither out of this mess.

And if the trial didn't deal with Ernesto properly, then Imelda and Pepita could hunt him down later. See how he liked being tossed in a sinkhole.

"Actually, we don't intend to keep any of Señor de la Cruz's belongings," said Julio. "As we told Señor Salinas when we spoke earlier, anything of Señor de la Cruz's that the court tries to award to us will be donated to those who don't receive offerings from ofrendas. Those who are nearly forgotten and with no family of their own. They need such things far more than we do. Mamá Imelda even told the police that when she gave her statement."

That seemed to knock both the lawyer and Ernesto for a loop. Señor Chávez startled and stopped his current line of questioning while Ernesto's expression shifted from smug to disgust.

"You want to give my belongings, my offerings from my fans, and even my house to those people?" said Ernesto.

The judge knocked the gavel a couple times, trying to remind him not to speak out of turn. And perhaps once he would have apologized for the outburst and offer a charming smile to the judge. Ernesto always knew how to use his charisma to his advantage. But apparently the last few months had frayed his impulse control. Instead of growing silent at the judge's warning, Ernesto kept talking.

"Let's drop this charade. I've put up with this game for long enough and I'm tired of it. We all know what will happen. I'll pay a fine and perhaps stage a few free performances for community service. And then I'll sue the entire Rivera family for their part in this attempt to slander my name. Ernesto de la Cruz, the greatest musician of all time, will not be locked away like some criminal. And I certainly won't lose my possessions to those useless, broken, abandoned skeletons squatting in the lowest levels of the Land of the Dead. Not because of some grave-robbing brat or a known trouble-making liar that even his wife hoped would disappear."

The gavel was banging loudly, practically echoing in the closed room as the judge tried to restore order over Ernesto's voice. Imelda's phalanges dug into the fabric of her dress as she sat still as a statue, barely hearing Señor Chávez trying to quiet his client or the judge warning Ernesto how close he was to being found in contempt of court. She was too focused on keeping still and silent. Her entire body shook from the strain. Fighting the overpowering urge to leap to her feet and lash out at the man, physically and verbally, was exhausting.

Imelda didn't know she could hate someone this much. Not until she learned the truth on Día de Muertos. But no matter how strongly she wanted to crack his skull again, she would let him dig his own grave.

As everyone settled back down and court resumed, Señor Chávez said, "So you claim that you and your family have no interest in the material possessions of the defendant. I find that hard to believe. He is a very rich man and that would be a lot to give away to people that you don't know."

"Well," said Julio, shifting his hat between his hands again, "I just don't see what we would need such a big and fancy house for. And even if we sold it, there would still be too much for us. We have enough already. Honestly, the only thing that might be useful is one of those guitars. I'm sure Héctor would appreciate having something to occupy his time as he finishes recovering."

"What?"

The loud, confused, and angry outburst made everyone jump. The twisted expression on Ernesto's face made it clear that it was fortunate that he was already dead. Otherwise his current fury would have probably caused an apoplexy and killed him.

"That's impossible," he continued to shout. "He was forgotten. He's less than a memory now."

"Actually, Héctor was only nearly forgotten," corrected Julio. "Dr. García has been supervising his recovery. Señor Salinas wanted Héctor to give his testimony as well, but Mamá Imelda…" He chuckled nervously. "She convinced him that Héctor's health was more important."

"Unless the defense thinks that his testimony will help their case and wants to subpoena an invalid that the defendant allegedly murdered without punishment in the first place?" said Señor Salinas innocently, ignoring Ernesto's frustrated rants and the banging of the gavel.

Señor Chávez's eyes widened at the suggestion. Even if Ernesto refused to believe the possibility of the charges actually affecting him, the lawyer recognized the severity of the situation. And there was no possible way that having Héctor limp into the room could make the celebrity seem like the injured party in these proceedings.

Even if it wasn't just Ernesto and Imelda had a large hand in her husband's condition…

"That won't be necessary," said Señor Chávez.

"Fine. Unless you have any further questions, I suggest you excuse Señor Rivera and we'll take a short recess." The judge glared at both the lawyer and Ernesto sharply. "Use that time to get your client under control. He's used up my limited patience and I will hold him in contempt if I hear another word out of him."

Julio visibly slumped with relief as he fled the stand. The jury was ushered out of the room in one direction while Ernesto vanished through another door, practically pushed by his whispering lawyer. Imelda waited quietly as the judge left the courtroom before voicing her suspicions aloud.

"You were hoping that he would react like that," she said as Julio sat down next to her. "You mentioned Héctor because you knew it would cause another out-burst."

Shrugging uneasily, he said, "It made Señor de la Cruz look bad in front of the jury, it made the judge angrier with him, and I don't have to answer any more questions."

"Very nicely done, míjo. I'm proud of you."

As Oscar and Felipe paused in their work, making certain to keep track of which needle belonged to which brother as they set them aside, they took a moment to see how Héctor was recovering. He seemed to be doing better now than when he staggered into the workshop earlier. Granted, he looked drowsy as he rested on his stool in the middle of the room. But the skeleton wasn't visibly wobbly or shaking anymore.

Felipe did notice that Héctor kept trying to watch them work. Whether or not he held any true interest in making shoes, it was probably still more interesting than sitting alone in a room all the time. Now that he seemed to stay awake for longer stretches of time and was trying to do more, they should have expected him to grow bored.

Next time, perhaps they should bring Héctor along from the start. It would save them some trouble.

And if Héctor started spending the day in the workshop with the rest of the family, then Imelda would be forced to spend time with him too. And the entire family agreed that the two of them needed to be around each other more.

Light snoring rose over the sounds of hammers and sewing machines. Felipe looked a little closer and realized that Héctor had lost the fight, dozing off on his perch. But as long as he didn't fall from the stool, it would probably be best to let him rest.

From the witness stand, Imelda could glare down at everyone quite effectively. Señor Chávez had apparently managed to talk some sense into his client, Ernesto fuming silently from his seat. The entire time that Señor Salinas made her explain the events of Día de Muertos, which seemed like a waste of time since Julio already explained everything, Imelda's eyes never left the murderer. She didn't want Ernesto to miss a single expression on her face. She made certain that the man knew exactly how she felt and that she wouldn't let him get away.

He would lose everything. His precious reputation would be in tatters. And the next several centuries of his afterlife would be spent imprisoned. Imelda would go through this legal mess for as long as possible if it ensured Ernesto was finally punished.

And as Señor Salinas finished his interrogation and Señor Chávez stepped forward, Imelda crossed her arms and stared the lawyer down. She wouldn't be intimidated by anyone. She wouldn't lose her temper and risk the case, but she wouldn't be back down either.

"We have already heard about the defendant's supposed confession," said Señor Chávez evenly, "from Officer Inglesias, Doctora Espina, and the recording from the interrogation room."

"Then it isn't really a 'supposed' confession, is it?" she said dryly.

"Is it not true that the defendant received further injuries while in custody? From you?"

"Sí."

Once again, Señor Chávez visibly startled at one of their answers. He obviously didn't expect Imelda's calm and blunt response. But she saw no reason to deny her actions. She didn't regret hitting him that day and would do it again if given the chance.

Trying to recover from her answer, Señor Chávez asked, "So you admit it. Then is it not plausible that my client's confession could be the result of coercion rather than honesty? That the defendant, already injured by his encounter with your alebrije, would have said anything to escape further pain?"

"I doubt even you believe that," said Imelda. "The recording and your witnesses would prove that I never threatened Ernesto to make him talk. He did that on his own. He lost his temper and told me everything."

"And then you lost your temper?"

"After Ernesto described in detail how he poisoned my husband, his best friend, and left him to die in an alleyway? And after he taunted me about Héctor nearly being forgotten?" she asked sharply, the anger rekindled as she remembered his words. But she reined it in before her emotions could escape. "Sí. I lost my temper. But only afterwards. His confession wasn't forced out of him by torture. He made it to hurt me." Imelda glared at Ernesto, wishing that she could take another swing at his oversized chin. "But he's hurt my family enough. He murdered my husband and nearly did the same to my great-great-grandson. He cannot be allowed to keep escaping the consequences of his crimes."

"Agitato" means almost exactly what it sounds like. It means to play the section of music in a way that sounds agitated. And in a chapter that involves Imelda being in the same room as Ernesto again, it seemed to fit the mood quite nicely.

Updates may slow for a bit. I have a vacation coming up, some real-life stuff, and a few other stories in need of attention. But don't worry. The wait shouldn't be too long for you.