The weeks had passed in Arcelia, and, sooner rather than later, the unexpected visit of a stranger had lost relevance.

It was already late in the afternoon when a horse-drawn cart stopped in front of Doctor Salvador’s house.

Several men jumped down, shouting, catching the attention of those nearby—including Rafael, who was smoking outside. Some of the men rushed into the clinic calling for the doctor, while others stayed on the cart, trying to move something.

Rafael dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, ready to go alert his boss about the commotion, but it wasn’t necessary: both Noé and Giovanni had already looked out the window after hearing the noise.

—What the hell is going on now? —asked Noé.

—That’s what I’m about to find out —replied Rafael, cautiously beginning to walk over, while Giovanni stepped out of the sheriff’s office and Noé stayed in the doorway.

María came running out seconds later, wiping her hands on her apron. When she saw the cart, she went pale with horror.

—Don’t move him! —she shouted, then turned and ran back to the clinic—. Dad! —she called out to her father.

Giovanni quickened his pace to catch up with Rafael. When they reached the cart, they saw him: it was Don Benito, a middle-aged man, lying on a dirty board covered with a straw mat. A deep gash crossed his chest, wrapped in several cloths trying to stop the bleeding.

—What happened? —asked the sheriff. He didn’t raise his voice, but his grave and serious tone carried weight. It wasn’t a shout, but it sounded dangerous.

The men looked at each other, unsure how to explain the situation.

—It was a machete —one said, avoiding the sheriff’s gaze. But that didn’t really answer the question.

María returned shortly after, pushing a stretcher with welded-on wheels. She left it at the clinic entrance and ran across the patio.

—I need you to carry him to the gurney.

—Rafa —called Giovanni.

Rafael understood instantly. Giovanni jumped onto the cart and lifted the board while Rafael carefully lowered it. Together, they walked as fast as they could to the clinic entrance.

They stopped beside the gurney.

—María, hold the bed —Giovanni ordered—. Rafa, on the count of three, just grab the mat and let go of the board so we can lay him down.

The young man nodded.

—One —he began the count, awkwardly resting the board on his knee to grab the edges of the mat.

María gripped the gurney firmly, ready to keep it steady as soon as they placed Don Benito on it.

—Two —continued Giovanni, now holding the corners of the mat without letting go of the board.

—Three! —they both shouted, releasing the board.

The crash echoed through the patio as they tried to place him down without shaking him too much.

—He’s in —said María, and pushed the gurney inside the clinic.

Doctor Salvador, now over sixty and not as agile as he once was, hurried over to examine Don Benito, while María assisted him, cleaning the blood so her father could better see the wound.

Once Benito was being treated, Giovanni turned to the men who still stood in the clinic’s yard, nervous, watching the scene without daring to intervene.

—What happened? —Giovanni repeated.

His voice was stern, and though he tried to remain calm, it didn’t stop the men from becoming even more tense.

—It was an accident...

One of them finally spoke, nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

—Explain —the sheriff demanded, in an even harsher tone.

But this time, no one spoke. Giovanni inhaled deeply, searching for patience. If they weren’t talking, it was either because they were involved... or afraid.

—That wound doesn’t look good at all —warned the sheriff—. If Benito doesn’t make it, you’re all going to jail for homicide.

They all looked up, horrified. None of them wanted to end up in jail.

—Then let’s start over. What happened?

—Benito and "El Cuajo" got into a machete fight —one of the men explained—. It started as a small argument, but then it escalated and... bam! "El Cuajo" tripped over a hole and then... schhkk —he made the sound of a blade while mimicking stabbing someone with an invisible machete.

Giovanni sighed.

—And where is this "Cuajo"?

—When he saw the Don wasn't getting up and was bleeding, he took off —confessed another of the men.

—Do any of you know this so-called "Cuajo's" real name or where he lives?

They nodded, exchanging looks.

—Good. Rafa, take them to headquarters so they can file a report. And tell Noé to go find the guy.

—Let's move —said Rafael, escorting the men toward the exit.

—For their sake, Don Benito better pull through... or we'll have a murderer on the loose.

But Benito's condition was far from hopeful. The doctor ran a hand through his white hair and shook his head.

—The wound is deep. There could be internal damage... This is beyond what I can handle.

María looked at him, horrified and helpless.

—So... is he going to die? —she asked in a whisper.

—If we don't drain the blood, it's possible —admitted the doctor—. And with these shaky hands, I can't risk opening him up further. I could end up killing him myself.

—What if I do it? —María asked, her voice trembling.

The doctor refused flatly. —If I could kill him, you definitely would. You don’t know how, even if I guide you. It’s too risky.

—So we just wait for him to die?!

Salvador shook his head. —Give him morphine. At least we can ease his pain.

María paled, but it wasn’t something she hadn’t faced before. They were doctors, not miracle workers. Sometimes they could do something, and sometimes... there was simply nothing to be done. And in this case, it seemed there was nothing more they could do.

But then, the door creaked open and Nil appeared, peeking in curiously at the man on the stretcher.

—You can't be in here —warned Salvador.

Nil ignored him and walked over to the unconscious man, gently pressing on his abdomen. —Don't do that! —the doctor shouted, trying to pull Nil away, but María stopped him.

—Papa, wait.

Because Nil's look wasn't one of curiosity or morbid fascination. He was analyzing. His hands, steady and sure, pressed specific points on the man's abdomen, carefully probing, as if he knew exactly what to look for. Salvador frowned.

—What do you think you're doing? This is not a game!

Nil didn’t answer right away. He pressed two fingers into a lower part of the belly, observing the body's reaction. His expression grew tense.

—He's got blood pooled here. If we don't drain it, he'll be dead before dawn.

Salvador scoffed in frustration.

—And how would you know that?

Nil looked up calmly.

—I’ve seen this before... and I’ve seen how it ends when you do nothing.

María swallowed, eyes fixed on Nil.

—Do you know how to drain it? Without opening him?

Nil nodded.

—Yes. But I need a long needle, a big syringe, something to disinfect... and a clean blanket. And silence.

Salvador stepped forward, agitated.

—Don't even think about it! So now you're a doctor?!

—You already gave up —Nil replied calmly—. So either let me try, or step aside and let him die, like you suggested.

—What the hell do you know?! You don’t know anything about this man!

—I know he's dying. And with me, he at least has a chance. Can you say the same?

The silence that followed was like a heavy weight. Salvador said nothing.

María, who had remained frozen during the argument, frowned. The answer was obvious. Without a word, she turned to the shelf and began gathering the supplies Nil had asked for.

—What are you doing? —Salvador asked in disbelief.

—Helping. Because if you’re not going to do anything... I will.

Just then, the door opened again. Giovanni stepped in, his brow still furrowed and dust on his shirt.

—What's the situation?

—Tense —Nil replied without looking up, as he disinfected a needle with alcohol—. And if no one decides soon, it might be irreversible.

—And what are you doing here? —Giovanni asked, confused to see Nil in the infirmary.

Salvador turned to him, on the verge of collapse.

—This stranger is going to kill my patient!

—He won’t kill him —María interrupted firmly—. You can’t do anything anymore, and he can!

—Don’t disrespect me, María Solís!

—Then act like a doctor, not a stubborn old man! —she snapped, eyes wet but determined.

The silence that followed was even heavier than before.

María turned to Giovanni, pleading.

—Please... take him out. He’s not helping.

Giovanni blinked, confused, but upon seeing Salvador’s face—twisted in frustration and helplessness—he nodded.

—Come, uncle —Giovanni said gently—. You did everything you could —he added softly, carefully taking the old man by the arms.

Salvador resisted for a second, jaw clenched, eyes gleaming with restrained rage. But he said nothing. He let himself be led out of the room, lips tightly shut.

When the door closed behind them, the old doctor struck the hallway wall with a clenched fist, a single sharp and restrained blow. He stood there for a moment, trembling with anger.

—Damn insolent... —he muttered—. If he dies, it’ll be his fault. But if he lives... —he swallowed hard.

Inside the room, María exhaled.

—Do you really know what you're doing?

Nil nodded calmly as he prepared the instruments. His expression was unshakable.

María’s resolve flared. She adjusted her apron with a determined gesture and nodded.

—How can I help?