Legacy meows around my feet as I make my way back through the village. I am still walking in the shadows, studying the street blocks ahead of me. I peek inside the window of the café, hoping and not hoping to see the Mogadorian with the thick mustache. He’s not there, but Héctor already is, and he’s laughing at something the woman at the next table just said. I’m going to miss Héctor just as much as I’ll miss Ella. I have two friends, not one.

Ducking under the window as I pass, I can’t help but look down at Legacy’s lush black-and-white fur coat. Less than an hour ago the cat was lying in an alley, bleeding on a pile of trash, and now he’s a ball of energy. My ability to heal and breathe new life into plants and animals and humans is an enormous responsibility. Fixing Ella made me feel more special than I ever had before, and it wasn’t because I felt like a hero, but because I helped someone who needed it. I slink a few doors down the street and Héctor’s laugh travels through the café window and wraps itself around my shoulders, and I know what I need to do.

The front door is locked, but when I go around to the back of Héctor’s house, the first window I try opens with ease. Legacy licks his paws as I climb up and through the window. Jitters attack; I have never broken into someone’s house before.

The house is small and dark inside, and the air is heavy. Every foreseeable surface is covered with Catholic figurines. I find Héctor’s mother’s room in no time. She lies on a twin bed in the far corner, her blankets slowly rising with each breath. Her legs are twisted at unnatural angles, and she looks frail. Pill bottles line a small nightstand, along with rosary beads, a crucifix, a miniature statue of the Virgin Mary with her hands held in prayer, and ten or so saints I don’t know the names of. I drop to my knees beside Carlotta’s sleeping body. Her eyes flutter open and scan the air. I freeze and hold my breath. I’ve never talked to her before, though when she finds me crouching beside her, a glint of recognition registers. She opens her mouth to speak.

“Shhh,” I say to her. “I’m a friend of Héctor’s, Señora Ricardo. I don’t know if you can understand me, but I’m here to help you.”

She accepts what I have told her with fluttering eyelids. I reach up and caress the side of her cheek with the back of my left hand, and then I rest it on her forehead. Her gray hair is dry and brittle. She closes her eyes.