Margarita suddenly lost focus.

That morning, in particular, her stomach churned, and her thoughts boiled over in her mind; that was it—her stupor. Her thoughts, a swirling storm of things, people, memories, old wounds, unfinished dreams... But something, always, allowed her to carry on, to align her thoughts with what she said and did. That something was really someone: Luis.

Luisito.

Her son.

They had just left.

That morning, when the rooster's crow woke her, and she was barely opening her eyes, she saw how the cold mist seeped under the doors and into her room. It looked like smoke. Were it not for the biting cold that kept her frozen in place, she would have gotten up to check that nothing was burning. It could have been heat, smoke, fire on the other side. But no, the freezing sensation told her that even moving her arms or feet just slightly would bring her into contact with the frigid sheets. And that meant there was no fire outside—only the icy tongue of the morning fog licking everything before it disappeared.

Margarita looked toward the window. Though all she could see on the other side was darkness, her countryside eyes, her forest mind, her mountain body allowed her to spot faint streaks of blue, like masterful brushstrokes smeared across a sky blackened by the night that refused to leave.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

In the sky, only for an instant when she glanced toward her husband, there were streaks of gray and lighter blue. Clouds. The remnants of a celestial palette that was no longer nocturnal.

She didn't want to move.

The cold was unbearable.

The frost outside and the warmth inside fogged up the window until everything became blurry—gray, a dark gray that cloaked them, shielding them from whatever lay beyond.

She didn't want to move.

She didn't want to get up.

She wished she were still asleep so she could keep dreaming. She wished it weren't so early, that she could have stayed in bed longer.

She didn't want to move.

Beside her, he grunted. Not at her, but at the morning. He didn't want to get up either.

She waited. She knew what was coming, understood what would follow.

Her husband sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and searched for something with his feet. He found it. She could hear him nudging it with his toes, or perhaps his heel.

He grunted again.

He leaned down and adjusted a urinal against the wall with his hand.

Then he stood up, pulled himself free, and began to pee right there beside the bed. He hit the target for the most part, and the pungent smell of fresh urine mixed with the stench of the previous night. Margarita gasped quietly, like a fish struggling to breathe out of water.

Isidro shook himself off, stood frozen with his member still out, seemingly pondering his next move. Routine won out. Instead of putting it away, he untied the cloth cord holding up his cotton pants, letting them fall to the floor.

He left his shirt on. Margarita had already squeezed her eyes shut.

He climbed on top of her, clumsy, straddling her with an ingrained roughness.

There was no pretending to stay asleep—not with him on top of her.

She kissed him back, her thoughts fixed on the smell of his breath and the stench of the urinal.

He pulled away and smiled at her.

Margarita looked back at him, serious.

"Do you really want to do this now?" she thought. Instead of saying it, she glanced sideways at the frosted window.

"I'll warm you up."

Margarita suddenly lost focus again.

She remembered Isidro making love to her at dawn.

She could still smell him.

She could still feel the nectar of his desire trickling down her thighs.

She also thought of Luisito, who hadn't eaten a proper breakfast. He'd barely managed half a glass of milk and two bites of bread—a sweet concha he had saved from the night before, despite desperately wanting to eat it then.

She thought about her family.

Thoughts, memories... images of them bombarded her mind, and she didn't like it. She was a practical woman. "Focus, Chencha," she told herself. But when her thoughts spiraled like this, she knew, at her age, that it was never a good sign.

When her parents died—both times—she couldn't stop thinking of them. She replayed their faces, their voices, all day, like a cinema projecting memories on an endless loop. Only when the news finally came did she learn they were gone.

It happened with her cousin Eustolia, too. That morning, her mind had been filled with memories of their childhood, their mischievous adventures, festivals, the kiosks where they walked, her wedding... and suddenly: three knocks at the door. Knock, knock, knock. Her cousin had died.

Margarita suddenly lost focus again.

But she didn't want to—not this time. Because it was different. Not just because it was her husband and her son, but because it had never happened with two people at once.

Margarita suddenly lost focus again: Luisito, Isidro, Luisito, Isidro, Luisito, Isidro, Luisito, Isidro, Luisito, Isidro, Luisito, Isidro, Luisito, Isidro, Luisito, Isidro...

Margarita suddenly lost focus again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Oh no..." she muttered, her legs giving out as she collapsed, chicken in hand, unable to wring its neck for the soup she had planned.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Death. She could swear it was death knocking at her door.

In the distance, shouts; outside her house, voices gathering.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Wh-who...?"

"Magos, hurry!"