"Un lápiz," she whispered, choosing safety. "A pencil."

"No, cabrón," Chucho leaned in. "Una pera en escabeche ."

"¡Un pera!" shouted the cousin.

He smiled. It was the worst smile she had ever seen. "No," he said, stepping closer. "That's what you tell them . But what do you tell me ?"

She wrote them down in a notebook she hid under her mattress. Each one was a trap. Innocent on the surface. A child's rhyme. But with a second meaning that slithered underneath like a worm in a ripe fruit.

And the answer wasn't a drum at all. Fin (o principio)

(Her abuela had taught her that one as a child. Un chicle, she used to say, laughing. But now, at 3 AM, the only image in Isabel’s head was a melting candle. Or worse. She slapped her pillow.)