Chapter 8: Muerte

Once, years and years ago, you asked your brother what he wanted to be when he grew up; all he said was, "I wanna be brave."

You didn't get it at the time, but now it makes all the sense in the world, and suddenly you come to the realization that courage is all you want in life too. Forget the fancy cars and limousines and loads of money. Bravery, courage, strength, hope, love; all of this seems way more important than something money can buy.

Sure, you want to be a famous athlete one day, but you'll use your riches for something important, like Quinn. More than anything, you want to make her proud. You barely know this girl. You barely know anything about her life, other than what she's told you, but all you want is to see her smile forever and ever and ever...

You always seem to do your best thinking at night. Ever since you've stopped dreaming in the beginning of this summer, sleep hasn't seemed truly necessary. To dream should be a privilege, not a right.

All you want is the ability to close your eyes, drift off into a peaceful state of mind, and leave all your troubles behind. If you could do that; forget all your worries and pretend the dream world is all yours, you would be invincible.

If you had the power to control your dreams, maybe you'd never even wake up. What would be the point? Why face this destructive, scary, outside world if there is a perfectly safe environment right inside your head?

Jose used to tell you about his dreams when you were younger. You'd sneak into his room at night, unable to fall asleep because of certain nightmares about car accidents and ghosts.

Jose would stay up with you, hold you in his arms, and tell you about his never-ending dreams about freedom. "I dreamt that I was flying, Santana," he'd whisper, tucking you under his arm protectively. "I dreamt we were both flying, and that no one could touch us because we were so high."

"Did we ever come down, Jose?" you remember asking, because back then, you were deathly afraid of birds and airplanes and anything too unimaginable, really.

Jose had just laughed, as if he couldn't understand why anyone would ever want to come back down to earth, to such a scary place full of evil and monsters. "You can come down, San," he said, staring up wonderingly at the ceiling. "But I think I'm gonna fly around a little bit longer before coming back down to earth. Just a little bit longer."

You used to repeat this mantra to yourself over and over again after Jose left. You remember kneeling beside your bed and propping your elbows on your comforter, repeating the words, "Just a little bit longer."

You had promised yourself to hold out a little bit longer. You had promised to wait for him to come home, because Jose said he would come back down to earth one day, and you believed him.

(Now? You don't know what to believe.)

Clutching the edge of your lumpy mattress, you close your eyes, stuff your face into your pillow, and scream. It comes out as a muffled, high-pitched whimper, but over the pathetic sounds of your voice, you hear a sound. This time, it is not your abuelita's late night television shows. You hold your breath and lay still, waiting to see if you hear the sound again.

There it is; that weak howl.

You usually hear this noise all the time, but never so close to your window. Throwing off your sheets, you slide out of bed and tiptoe over the creaks in the floorboards.

Scratching sounds rake against your windowsill, and when you pull back the curtains, you almost shriek in surprise. Clamping your lips shut, you roll your eyes at Mr. Ramos' hound dog as he licks at the glass of the window and rubs his wet nose against the screen.

Shutting the curtains, you hurriedly tug on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before creeping out your room and out of the house without as much as a peep. Mr. Ramos' dog is still sitting in the grass beside your window when you round the house, waiting, his big droopy eyes staring blankly up at you.

The dog rolls out his long, wet tongue and pants as if he just ran two miles, and you grimace at the drool pooling out the corner of his mouth. Unsure of what to do, you clap your hands quietly and make kissy noises at him, hoping it will work to make him follow you, but the hound dog just sits there and stares, as if he's trying to hypnotize you.

"C'mon, you dumb dog," you mutter, snapping your fingers impatiently, and voila, the dog actually stands up and walks towards you.

You smile victoriously and lead him across the street towards Mr. Ramos' house. He's slow and sloth-like, and it takes about three whole minutes to cross the street and coax the old dog up the porch.

It's about midnight, and you can hear the sound of a television coming through the front door. Raising your fist to the wood, you knock, and then wait patiently for him to open the door.

No one opens the door.

You stand outside in the dark for about two minutes with a boring dog before you bang on Mr. Ramos' door again, a bit louder this time just in case the old man is going deaf or something.

You're just about to call it a night and leave the dog on his porch when the front door cracks open and Mr. Ramos peeks his head out suspiciously. He looks you up and down, a dreary look in his bloodshot eyes, and you come to the conclusion that he was either in a very deep sleep, or drinking a whole lot of booze this evening.

A broad smile stretches across his face when he sees his hound dog laying comfortably on the wooden porch. "Mi perro," he singsongs joyfully, opening the front door a little wider, and you watch closely as the hound dog stands up and walks very slowly into the house. "Trajiste mi perro de nuevo. Espera aquí y te recompensaré por su buena acción."

He disappears from the door, and you just stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do, because you didn't understand a word he just spoke; your Spanish comprehension is still a little rough around the edges.

Mr. Ramos left his door wide open, so you crane your neck and peek inside. For someone who lives in such a poor neighborhood, the old man sure has a nice place. You yawn, tired from another adventurous day with Quinn, and you're just about ready to climb down the porch and head home when old Mr. Ramos reappears out of nowhere, right in front of the doorway, startling the fuck out of you.

You jump slightly and take a step back when Mr. Ramos takes a step forward and closes the front door behind him. He's cradling a lit cigar in between his index and middle finger, and you wonder if Mike is the only person in this whole town who doesn't smoke.

You tuck your hands into your pockets, shivering a bit when a cool breeze drifts by and shakes the trees in the distance. Mr. Ramos flicks a switch on the wall, illuminating the whole porch, and you squint your eyes, because your dark pupils aren't used to bright lights this late at night, or morning depending on how you look at it.

Mr. Ramos holds a thick book under his arm. "Siéntate, cariño, y deja que te cuente una historia," he says with a smile as he sits on a crooked bench and pats the spot next to him invitingly.

You quirk an eyebrow, confused by his words. "Um, no puedo...hablar mucho Español."

"You can't speak Spanish?"

Pausing, you stare at him, completely dumbfounded. "You can speak English?"

"Well," he begins with a shrug of his shoulder, carefully placing the thick book on top of his lap. "Yeah."

(And apparently it's that simple.)

Half-intrigued, half-suspicious, you cautiously take a seat on the wobbly bench beside Mr. Ramos, coughing slightly when a whiff of smoke enters your nose and burns your lungs.

"Do you mind the smoke?" he asks with a heavy accent, holding up the fat cigar. "I can put it out if you want."

"It's fine," you tell him, waving the puffs of smoke away from your face.

The smell doesn't bother you at all, actually. After years of smoking, you've come to the conclusion that you prefer the bitter, pungent taste of cigarettes rather than the sweet taste of cupcakes and candy.

Your mom and dad don't approve of your nasty habit, so you only smoke when they're not around. As long as it's not drugs, you assume they're not going to waste energy worrying about it too much when they have a son out there somewhere, probably passed out in an alleyway or something.

"How did you learn?" you ask, watching as Mr. Ramos blows out a line of smoke in the opposite direction.

He looks at you with a crease in his already wrinkled forehead. "To smoke?"

"How did you learn how to speak English?" you elaborate, raising a brow. "Barely anyone in this part of town can speak English."

"Ahh..." he hums, nodding his head slowly. "Your grandfather taught me."

Your eyes narrow in thought, unaware that your grandfather knew how to speak English either. It seems you don't know a lot about everything. "He did?"

"He was a fisherman; traveled to the States many a times," the old man says, a wide grin stretching across his saggy cheeks. You wonder what memories are flashing through his ancient mind. "As we sailed from island to island, fishing and haggling and loading crates, he taught me how to speak English so well, I almost forgot my native language."

You smile crookedly, curious. "What's that?" you ask, jutting your chin towards his lap where a heavy book sits.

"Your grandfather was a very smart man," Mr. Ramos continues, without even contemplating your question. "Spoke five languages, loved to travel and explore and discover. He could have been anything."

"Then why did he choose to fish?"

Mr. Ramos scratches his full head of salt and pepper hair and shrugs a shoulder. "He liked it."

"He liked it?" you echo skeptically, because it doesn't seem very realistic to you. If he had so many other talents, why would he choose fishing of all things to make a career out of? Sure, you like to sing sometimes, but you'd never run away to New York with nothing but your vocals to live off.

"You see this?" Mr. Ramos questions, gesturing to what's before him, and you nod, because of course you see it; you're not blind or anything. "This is a photo album. It's very old and delicate, so be careful as you turn the pages."

With his shaky, wrinkled hands, Mr. Ramos carefully places the huge photo album in your lap. Tentatively, you flip through the album and take in the black and white pictures pasted to the yellowing pages. "Is this you?" you ask, pointing to a picture of two men standing in front of aRodriguez sailboat.

Sighing through his nose, Mr. Ramos smiles wistfully and nods his head. "Sure is," he affirms, tracing the edge of the photograph with his pointer finger. "And that's your abuelo."

You kind of already knew that, but you nod anyway and say, "Really?" because you want to hear him talk more about the old days, since your grandmother never does.

Instead of answering your question, though, Mr. Ramos takes a long drag from his cigar and asks, "Have you ever heard of a conspiracy?"

"Um..." you murmur, distracted as you continue to turn the pages of the photo album. "Yeah, of course."

"Well, cariño," Mr. Ramos says gently, an odd look of sadness and regret in his eyes, and you pause, looking at him with a questioning crease between your brows. "I don't think your grandfather died of an infection." He swallows thickly, taking a moment to prepare himself. "I think he was poisoned."

Your blood runs cold on the inside, but you don't know how to react on the outside. For the first time tonight, you remember this is the man your grandmother calls loco, and now you wonder how much truth there is to her words.

You don't want to believe him, but he just looks so serious, and you wonder again if he's drunk. You narrow your eyes and look at him carefully. He doesn't really seem drunk other than the glassiness in his eyes. He smells like burnt wood, not hard liquor, so you suppose he's sober enough.

Sensing your skepticism, Mr. Ramos points to a photo in the album and says, "This woman was hot stuff back in the day, but she was off limits to us."

Assuming us means Mr. Ramos and your abuelo, you look back down at the album and narrow your eyes on a picture of your grandfather and a woman with her back turned to the lenses, as if playing coy. They're at a restaurant, and the woman is smoking a cigar. Her dress is plain, only a dark ribbon tied around her hips to add flare to the ensemble.

"That didn't stop your grandfather though," Mr. Ramos continues, his gravelly voice low and weak. "She was meant to marry someone from herpart of town, but your grandfather made her fall in love with him, and well..."

(The rest is history, you think to yourself.)

You can't see the woman's face, but the way she holds her cigar between her middle and ring finger is unmistakable. It's weird, looking at a picture of them together, so young, so full of life, so happy, knowing now that your abuelo's dead, knowing now that your grandmother is so sad she barely leaves the house anymore.

"The family of the man she was supposed to marry was livid because apparently some deals were made." Mr. Ramos flips to another page, and you whisper a silent goodbye to the photo of your grandparents. "Before your grandfather died, he told me to keep an eye on Rita, and I swore to him that I would."

The story he tells immediately connects in your mind; envy and conspiracy and murder and false promises tangle up in your chest with a burning hate. "Why are you telling me this?" you ask softly, still staring down at the old photos. "Why didn't you tell the police?"

Mr. Ramos chuckles humorlessly. "Silly girl," he mutters under his breath, staring deeply at the smoke swirling in front of his face. "Silly, silly girl. There was nothing I could do. They wouldn't believe me. Who was I compared to the Rodriguez family? Who am I now? Nothing. I couldn't even help my friend, so the only way to avenge his death was to adhere to his dying wish and watch over Rita for him."

You ignore the way he calls you a silly girl in favor of trying to completely understand what Mr. Ramos is saying exactly. "Wait..." You pause, stare forward, and say, "Jump back and rewind."

"What?"

"I said rewind," you repeat, quickly flipping back a few pages in the photo album. "Back up a little bit and repeat what you just said."

Mr. Ramos narrows his gray eyebrows. "Um..." he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. "No one would believe me? Silly girl, uh...who am I compared to the Rodriguez fam-"

"Pause, right there," you instruct, just as you find the page in the photo album where Mr. Ramos and your abuelo are standing in front of aRodriguez sailboat. "Is this the boat you worked on?"

"Yes."

"And Rodriguez was the last name of the man who wanted to marry my grandma?"

"Yes," he exasperates, waving his lit cigar around frantically. "This is what I've been trying to tell you."

"So, you think they killed him?" you ask skeptically.

Mr. Ramos nods. "I know they killed him," he tells you, blowing out a line of smoke. "Years of pent up anger finally released. Decades of envy and greed finally exposed." He continues to mumble on about conspiracy and hate, but you're not really listening as you turn the pages and find the picture of your grandparents again.

(They were so happy.)

So, maybe Miss Paxton was right. Maybe history does repeat itself, because there was once a time you were happy with Skye, before lies and secrets and life got in the middle of everything you had together.

You're still not sure if you should believe this old man just because of a few pictures and a truly dubious yet insightful story about love and conspiracy. If the story's not true, it was surely entertaining, so you suppose that should account for something.

Wiggling your toes in the sand, you close your eyes and pull down on the bill of your Dodgers cap to hide your face from the sun.

Although you try not to think about it, your mind won't stop drifting away to thoughts of your grandfather's footprints in the sand on this beach. You wonder if he liked the beach as much as you do.

There's just something about the peacefulness and tranquility at the beach, breathing in the salt water and soaking in the warm sun that makes you feel calm and forget all of the conspiracies Mr. Ramos drunkenly spewed the other night. You're still not sure if you believe what he said, but it did make a lot of sense.

(Sort of.)

Only wearing a pair of thin shorts and a white tank top, you lay flat on your back in the warm sand beside Quinn and stare up at the sky. The sound of waves crashing against the shore reminds you of the whoosh of traffic back in the city where you were born and raised. Sometimes you miss the streets, the high skyscrapers, the noisy kids rapping on the stoop, the ice cream truck la-la-la-ing down the road.

But sometimes, thinking about downtown Houston reminds you of the friends you lost after everything with Skye happened. Your friends were her friends, and vice versa. Once things ended between the two of you in a less than clean breakup, your friends had no other choice but to pick a side, and it came as no surprise when they all stuck with Skye instead of you.

(And you kind of don't blame them. She needed them more than you, after all.)

Letting out a yawn, Quinn shifts in the sand beside you, breaking you out of your thoughts. You tilt your head sideways and smile at the way she's nose-deep in a thick novel. You still don't know a whole lot about Quinn, but if it's one thing you know for sure, she loves to read autobiographies and memoirs about slightly psychotic individuals, like Susanna Kaysen from Girl, Interrupted, or Sylvia Platt from The Bell Jar.

Not only that, but you've maybe kind of become her muse and inspiration this summer. You don't mind her taking pictures of you. Your dark pupils have gotten used to the blinding flash, so you're not really worried about losing your eyesight.

It's always at the most odd moments too. Like, when you're kneeling down, tying your shoelaces, or kicking a rock down the pathway, or shooing a fly out of your face. They're the most ridiculous snapshot scenarios, but they always come out looking like a piece of art.

What you're really worried about is not having any memories of your own once this summer is over. You don't have a camera, so it's nearly impossible to sneak any snapshots of Quinn when she's not paying attention.

Sucking up your pride, you wring your fingers together on your stomach and stare up at the quickly darkening sky. "You sure have a lot of pictures of me," you muse quietly.

It's only meant as a random comment; something to wonder about in the silence surrounding you. Jose used to say random things all of the time. You're not sure if it was because he was high, or if he was just a philosophical person who questioned the world, wondered why life is the way it is.

You've never met anyone as smart as him, and it's sad, kind of, thinking about everything he missed out on, all of the unknown treasures he could have discovered and loved and cherished.

Quinn chuckles at your uneasy expression, continuing to read the thick novel in her hands, and you wonder if the title on the cover is Looking for Alaska. "Yes, I do," she whispers, a small smile curling at her lips.

"Why do you take them?" Carefully, you sit up in the sand and rub the back of your neck. "For your own personal stash? For a school project? For..."

"Do you not like me taking pictures of you?" Quinn asks, setting her book down in her lap.

She doesn't sound defensive, not exactly, so you don't think you hit a sore spot, but you do see something you've never quite seen on her face before. (Bashfulness? Embarrassment? Nerves?)

Self-consciously, Quinn runs a hand through her short, blonde locks and side-glances in your direction. "Because if it makes you uncom-"

"No, no," Raising your hands, you shake your head, because it's nothing like that. "It's nothing like that, Q. It's just..." You pause, let out a long sigh, and count to five, because counting to ten would be too lengthy of a silence, and then things will feel awkward, and you really don't have the patience for that right now. "It's just that you have all these pictures of me, and like, I have no pictures of you."

You shrug a shoulder, trying to play it off as nothing, but you can feel Quinn eyeing your profile, and it's making you feel warm even though it's the coolest day of the summer.

The whistle of the wind just further alerts you to the awkward silence, and you inwardly curse yourself, because why did you feel it necessary to bring this up again?

Staring off into the ocean, you scratch the back of your head uneasily. Your hair is a little bit matted from the humidity yesterday, and you haven't washed it in awhile, so maybe you should do that some time soon.

Without a word, Quinn picks up her bag and places it on her lap, raking through the items inside before pulling out her photo album. You watch from out the corner of your eye as she peels off a few random Polaroid photos, enough to make a thick stack.

"Here," she says, and when you turn your head to look at her, the first thing you see is the amused smirk on her pink lips as she looks at you from under her eyelashes, hazel eyes bright with something you can't quite pinpoint.

You didn't even realize you were holding your breath until you exhale out through your nose. Hesitantly, because this just seems too good to be true, you reach out for the stack of pictures and smile when you see the one placed at the top. It's the picture Mike took of Quinn's face nearly smushed against the camera lens.

(You don't care how cheesy it sounds; this one might be your favorite of all.)

"My dad used to love taking pictures," Quinn says, stuffing her photo album back into her messenger bag. "He wasn't a professional or anything, but he claims his pictures held true power because they told a story rather than just capturing a distant memory no one can understand unless they were there."

You like it when she talks about her past; it's like she's trusting you with a small part of herself that you'll never fully know. "Well," you begin, wanting to sound just as philosophical as your brother. "A picture does capture a memory, but I suppose the story depends on the eye of the beholder. Like a book, perhaps. You have to use your imagination to fill in all of the blanks."

When you finish speaking, Quinn just stares at you. She dawns a lot of expressions and looks, but you don't think you've ever seen this one before. There's a slight smirk on her lips that says, when did you get so fucking smart? But then there's this glint in her eyes that say, I knew you could do it. Both looks make your heart swell up with pride, and your chest aches, but that's okay, because it's a good kind of ache.

As you flip through the photos, Quinn leans her head on your right shoulder. The left side of your body automatically feels colder in comparison. You don't mean to stiffen your back, but your posture must get rigid in some form by the way Quinn chuckles under her breath as she looks down at the pictures with you.

"Quinn," you whisper, turning your head slightly.

Quinn hums tiredly beside you and sinks even deeper into your side. There's so much you want to say, yet so little time to say them. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Eventually, Quinn tilts her head back, staring at you with those bright hazel eyes of hers, and now your voice is caught in your throat.

"I just..." you mumble, but then pause, knitting your eyebrows together when Quinn tugs on your arm to wrap around her waist.

"I'm cold," she explains, interlacing your fingers together on top of her firm stomach.

You're even more lost for words now. "Okay," you whisper, carefully resting your chin on her soft, blonde hair.

"Okay," Quinn mimics with a breathy laugh.

You smile and stare off into the ocean with Quinn's lithe body warm at your side. You still have so much you want to say to her, but you can't trust yourself to live with the words you want to say so badly. Quinn seems content, but you've never been too good at just thinking and breathing in the silence.

And maybe she can sense this, because with a cute giggle, Quinn pulls the bill of your cap over your eyes, and when playfully you nudge her to the side and into the sand, the moment is over. Your chance to tell her how you feel is over.

(For now.)

When you get home that evening, you dash into your room, ignoring the slight hint of empanadas cooking in the background to pin up Quinn's pictures on your wall. After awhile, Abuelita peeks into your room and watches you redecorate, but you don't care if it looks like you're in love with a cryptic, college girl you barely even know, because...maybe you are.

Dear Journal,

As I fall asleep tonight, I tell myself to lay off the drug that is Quinn's charming smile for awhile; lay off her breathy laugh, silky smooth voice, light brown freckles, her choppy blonde locks, but then...then I picture her face, I see her exuberant grin in my dreams, and eventually, I forget everything I just promised myself.

Because promises are worthless. It's actions that really make a difference.

Mike's grandma lives in China.

Quinn's grandma lives in France.

Sam's grandma lives in Canada.

Puck's grandma lives in Israel.

Your grandma lives in Mexico.

Everyone's grandmother lives in a different country.

(This is the only thing you have in common with these people.)

Mike is hyperactive and jittery, but only because he needs to keep moving or else he fears he'll just stop and never start up again. Sam is quiet and reserved, but when you get him out of his shell, his personality is so huge you can't even wrap your arms around it. Puck has his moments when his insults aren't demeaning and directed towards anyone whose name is Santana.

Quinn's the biggest Rubix Cube you have ever seen, but you think if you figure out her secrets and turn the edges enough over and over again, you just might be able to solve her puzzle and decode her spectacular enigma.

Quinn is a person; just like you, Mowgli, your abuelita, your brother, your mom and dad. She's just a person, and sometimes you have to pinch yourself to snap out of it, because she's Quinn, and you think you're falling, but that's not possible, because you don't even remember jumping.

She's just beautiful and kind and smart and, yes, you know you probably sound like a lovesick puppy, but at least this feeling keeps you from feeling numb, and you suppose that's what counts.

Not a lot of things counted before this summer. Not a lot of things mattered to you anymore after Jose happened, after Skye happened. Everything happened, and you didn't know what to do, so you stopped doing everything.

But Quinn, with her hazel eyes and pink lips; she makes you want to stop doing nothing and start to doing anything. You don't know what it is; what you're meant to do, how you're meant to do it, and when it's meant to be done. All you know is that Quinn's here, and in this moment, you want nothing more than to do this summer with her, because that may be all you'll ever have with her.

"Definitely Africa," Quinn claims, sticking her foot into a giant pothole, and you almost lose your wits.

"Don't step in it," you huff, pushing her aside, gently of course, because it's still Quinn, and no matter how worked up you get, you'd never hit to hurt her. "You'll ruin the perfect structure of South America."

"Santana," she begins, in that condescending tone you're desperately trying not to find attractive at the moment. "I take a global studies course at the University of Los Angeles. I've travelled to countries all over the world. I think I know an Africa-shaped pothole when I see one."

The two of you, standing in the middle of the street, arguing over what shape this giant pothole resembles, must really look stupid to the outside viewer, but you like how Quinn doesn't give a shit about what anyone thinks and continues to argue with you like this is the most important discussion she's ever had.

You're only in front of your abuelita's house and the road is completely deserted, so you doubt anyone's listening to the two of you anyway, but you like the thought of her looking like an idiot with you.

About ten minutes ago, Quinn knocked on your door, explaining something about today is the day. You had no idea what she was talking about, but you followed her anyway.

Right when she was explaining further, you had tripped over a massive pothole, like the klutz you are. Now here you stand, ten minutes later, arguing over what country the shape of this pothole most closely resembles.

You narrow your eyes at the hole in the black concrete, purse your lips, fold your arms over your chest, and try to imagine a map. You never really paid much attention in your Changing World History course, so it is possible you could be wrong, but you're not the type of person to back down from a fight, especially with one against Quinn.

"How could you say this looks anything like Africa?" you scoff, shaking your head in mock confusion. "This part right here-" you gesture your hand near the bottom half of the pothole "-is totally Argentina."

"No," Quinn counters, crouching down on her tiptoes to get a better look at the hole. "This is definitely South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Mozambique we're looking at. And if you don't believe me, I can call Puck and ask him. He took a geography course last semester. He'd surely know."

(Puck. The last thing you want to see on this lovely day is Puck.)

"No, that's okay, I believe you," is your quick response. "Africa, it is."

Quinn smiles that victorious smile of hers, and you kind of don't mind that she won this round, even though you know she purposefully used Puck's presence against you, because she's Quinn, and you're pretty sure she can do whatever the hell she wants without any consequences, because, well...she's Quinn.

You think you're having one of those moments that only exist in movies, because Quinn's still smiling at you, yet her grin has settled down from smug to sincere, and somehow, you're smiling back at her, just as sincerely. You're both in the middle of the street, right in front of your abuelita's house in Mexico, it is hot as balls outside, and you're certain Quinn is licking her lips because she wants to kiss you, but then-

"Troubles!"

Ever heard of bubbles bursting? Well, this bubble that you live in almost every day of your life and so graciously let Quinn enter has just been popped by the pointiest, shiniest needle known to man. You try not to look too annoyed as you turn your head and glare towards Mr. Ramos' house.

The old man is on his knees, sobbing into his wrinkled hands. Your irritated expression immediately turns into one of concern, but you don't think to find out what's wrong with the old man until you're standing alone in the middle of the street, silently watching as Quinn climbs Mr. Ramos' porch to help him to his feet.

Sighing, because you were this close, this close to kissing her, you jog slowly to the porch and gaze up at Quinn as she murmurs soft words into Mr. Ramos' ear to calm him down. "Está bien. Está bien," she hushes. "Lo que está mal va a estar bien."

Mr. Ramos' sobbing slowly dies down, and you manage a reluctant smile at the way Quinn rubs his back in small, soothing circles and continues to whisper soft words into his ear to keep him calm.

You've never been very good around crying people. You're sensitive, sure, but you're not the sentimental type. Tears make you cringe, so you try to stay away from that as much as possible.

Quinn is really good at this comforting stuff. You wonder if it's something she learned from visiting so many countries and helping so many different people, or maybe it's just a Quinn thing. Maybe she's just naturally good at heart. This thought makes you smile to yourself as you climb the steps once you're absolutely positive all remnants of tears have vanished.

It turns out, Mr. Ramos' hound dog died in his sleep last night. The howling used to keep you up at all hours of the night along with that damn bird, but throughout the weeks, you've gotten so used to the sounds that they've become quite soothing to you.

In the beginning of the summer, you would have definitely noticed the lack of howling and barking, but you suppose you've gotten so used to the sounds, you didn't even notice when they all came to a complete stop in the middle of the night.

When you enter his house, you have to hold your breath, because it smells like dead dog. Quinn grabs a can of fragrance and sprays every inch of air in the house. You remain silent by the door, because the smell of death is quite nauseating, even if it's only a dog that has passed away.

(Either way, death in general is still pretty sad to think about.)

Right now, as you stand near the door and as far away from death as possible, you hope Troubles is in a better place. He was old and slow and had a slight limp in his left hind leg. You didn't know Troubles the dog very well, obviously, but he seemed like a good dog, with his droopy eyes and long, floppy ears.

Mr. Ramos comes from the back of the house, and you have to look away when you see the limp bundle of fur in his arms. Troubles was no small dog, so it's clear that Mr. Ramos is struggling to carry the hound dog out the backdoor. Quinn tries to help as much as she can without actually touching the deceased dog or breathing in its horrid scent, and you follow far behind as you exit the house and shuffle into the backyard.

You finally offer some assistance when Quinn asks you to help her dig a hole while Mr. Ramos has a moment with Troubles alone. You try not to look directly at the dead dog nor the swarm of flies around his coat as you shovel into the dirt.

Sweat drips down the sides of your face, the hot sun shining straight down on you because there is no shade in Mr. Ramos' backyard. You're about to ask Quinn if you can maybe take a five minute break, but when you see the sadness in her eyes, you keep shoveling without word.

"Today we gather to bury Troubles the hound dog," Quinn says, only speaking in English now that you've informed her of Mr. Ramos' secret. "He was, um...a loyal friend and good companion. Today, on the first of August, we are all very saddened to see him go."

It took about a half an hour to break through the hard ground. You know you're going to suffer from sore muscles in the morning, but the look on Mr. Ramos' face as he lays Troubles in his grave is all worth it. He almost looks relieved to let him go now, as if there's something better waiting for Troubles in the next life over.

(Somewhere in your heart, you hope it's true.)

You all say some words about Troubles. You mention the time he broke into your abuelita's backyard and peed on your favorite denim shorts that were hooked on the clothing line. You were actually really pissed about that, but you try to make the story as humorous as possible in order to make Mr. Ramos smile.

After you finish speaking, trailing off awkwardly when you run out of stuff to say, Mr. Ramos recalls many of the good times he had with Troubles. You probably stand there for a good twenty minutes listening to a story about the time Troubles got Mr. Ramos a date with a Mexican barista.

Then Quinn, who never even knew Troubles existed before today, says some words about life and death and how the two aren't as different as everyone believes. She sighs, and you wish you were close enough to feel the breath of her exhale on your skin. "All things are difficult before they are easy," she says, just a whisper, and you feel a shiver go up your spine; it's chilling and cold, but you like it, because Quinn gave it to you.

Mr. Ramos nods, but he doesn't say anything as you and Quinn both grab a shovel and begin to pile the dirt back into the hole and on top of Troubles. It's the closest thing you'll ever get to saying goodbye to anyone you've lost in your life.

As if this were a real funeral, old Mr. Ramos sets out some cheese and crackers after you head back into the kitchen. Out of chivalry and kindness, you and Quinn eat everything he gives you. Mr. Ramos doesn't say anything the whole time, just stands by the kitchen window and gazes out at Troubles' grave.

A white stone sits right on top of the soft dirt. You put it there just so Mr. Ramos wouldn't forget the exact spot Troubles was buried, but looking at it now, the white stone kind of looks nice there. Quinn even sprinkled some sunflower seeds that she found in a flower pot, hoping something will grow after a good rain shower or two.

Throughout your meal of cheese and crackers, you try to make eye contact with Quinn, desperately wanting to leave, because there's a point when things go from nice to creepy, and remaining in his house after dark is far beyond creepy. After multiple attempts to gain Quinn's attention, you finally catch her eye and blink slowly. Quinn just nods in understanding and whispers something into Mr. Ramos' ear.

"Okay," he murmurs, shrugging his shoulders lamely.

He is starting to shut down; you can see it in his eyes. The realization and total impact of Troubles' death is beginning to weigh heavily on him. You can tell Quinn doesn't want to leave him here by himself to deal with the brunt alone.

(Something deep in your gut tells you she once had to deal with something like this alone.)

"Refusing to talk about it isn't going to get rid of the problem," Quinn says, after you've left the old man's house. Raising an eyebrow, you glance Quinn's way just as she's walking over the South America/Africa pothole. "An addiction is like a weed in a garden. It won't go away if you ignore it. You have to find where the weed is coming from and treat the weed before it becomes too unruly and hard to handle."

Your walking feet slowly come to a stop in the middle of the street. "An addiction?"

Quinn seems to notice her mistake and stops short. You stare at her back with an arched brow and watch as she slowly turns around. It's dark outside now, and you can only see the way her eyes widen momentarily from the gleam of the moonlight against her face.

"I mean," she trails off, tucking her hands into her shorts. "Depression can be an addiction, and you know, I don't want Mr. Ramos to fall into that."

Skeptically, you knit your eyebrows together and nod, because it's obvious she doesn't want to talk about whatever she really meant. You're not the type to force answers out of people before they're ready, so you let it go, though you don't stop thinking about it.

Addiction.

For a seventeen year old girl from Houston, Texas, you know a lot more about addiction than you should. Every time you think of your brother, that word pops up into your head.

(You can't help it; force of habit, you suppose.)

For awhile, you tried to pretend nothing was happening to your brother. Sure, he came home at all hours of the night, started hanging out with a different crowd, and barely included you in his life anymore, but you thought that was because he was getting older.

"He'll be back to being your big brother before you know it," your father used to say, after you'd ask him why Jose was acting so weird. "He's just going through some things at the moment. When you're a teenager, you'll understand."

Now, you're finally a teenager. You've been a teenager for four years now, but you still don't understand what your father meant. You never went through what Jose did with the drugs and alcohol thing. And your father was wrong about Jose being your big brother again.

You hadn't always been so ignorant to believe your brother had a problem. You remember the first time you caught him with the stuff. You weren't surprised, of course, because you're not stupid.

1) You knew the kind of people he hung out with.

2) You could smell his clothes whenever he came home from a party.

3) You saw the redness in his eyes.

Whatever he was using, cocaine, marijuana, whatever, it was surely taking its toll.

Now that it was right in front of your face, you couldn't pretend it wasn't happening anymore, so you threatened to tell Ma if he didn't stop. And for awhile, he did. You were actually dumb enough to believe you were getting your big brother back. That was until Ma came to you with a rolled up blunt in her hand.

You were sitting on the couch, lazily flipping through the channels when she stood right in front of the television. You had rolled your eyes and thought she was about to nag you about your bad grades this semester when you looked up and saw what she was holding.

"What's this, Santana?" she asked.

Your first response was to be blunt and say, That's a blunt, Ma. Your second response was to cover for Jose; lie and say it was Billy's blunt, or John's blunt, or Nicholas' blunt, or whatever name of your brother's old friends you could remember.

Your last response, though, was honesty, and strangely, that's what ended up coming out that day.

The truth.

Dear Journal,

Why death? There's such a thin line between life and death, you think we'd cherish it more. You're alive one second, and then the next, that's it, you're gone.

For years, we live and breathe, in and out, inhale, exhale. We do this every day without even realizing it, without stopping, without fail, until...one day it all ends.

It can be a complete accident, happening in just the split of a second, which in most cases is the absolute worst, because there is always this silent, haunting question of what if.

Some deaths are slow and withering, like a wilting flower or a dying tree. You know it's coming eventually, and once it comes, the release is such a relief, because now there is no more pain, no more waiting, no more hurting.

And some deaths happen slowly but knowingly. Your time has come, and although you are sad to leave, and your loved ones are sad to see you leave, you know your life is complete, you have lived to your full capacity with no regrets, and it's your time to leave this world and go on to a better place.

So, why death? Why can't we just live forever, be these immortal beings we read about in Greek Mythology or in the Bible? Why does the blood in our veins stop flowing, why do our brains stop calculating, why do our hearts stop beating?

It could be as simple as the circle of life. We must move on to make space for the newcomers. We must give nutrients to the earth when our bodies return to where we first originated.

Death is life, but what's scary is the unknown. In life, we have no idea where we will go, where we end up, and in death, we all face that same exact uncertainty.