Jaime woke when Jimena shoved him off the bed, his head bouncing against the dirt floor. He felt indignant for a heartbeat—until the memories of last night returned.
Relief washed through him as he studied her careless, sprawled form. A faint mist rose from her skin, burning away the moisture the cool ocean breeze had left behind. Everything was slick with that dawn-soaked sheen.
Feeling sticky with sweat, Jaime got up to wash. Ma Chia—like many in the village—kept wooden basins beside her well. When she'd moved to the village center, they had dug a new one for her hut. With so much water in the region, wells were easy enough to make, though saltwater often leaked into them depending on the soil. The nearness of the sea was the usual culprit.
The thought nudged Jaime toward Jimena's planned improvements for the village toilets. He chuckled to himself at how one could "improve a hole in the ground"—and then found himself thinking about it far longer than expected. Standing beside the full basin, he lifted bucket after bucket, letting the cold water wash away the sweat and the morning fog in his mind.
Some of the village men stepped outside and did the same, dumping water over their heads and scrubbing at their skin with rough hands. Others used copal resin to clean themselves, leaving a sweet, lingering smoke scent in the air.
His father used to talk about better living conditions when he was young—sturdier houses, proper bathing pools, even hot baths that soothed aches and exhaustion. Jaime had tried to press for details, but Javier always shook his head, unwilling or unable to revisit the past.
"It doesn't matter," he'd say. "We keep moving forward."
After finishing, Jaime headed back inside and grabbed the new garments Chia had left for them. The bright colors brought a smile to his face. Maize seemed to be the theme—rows of golden stalks woven beneath a brilliant sun.
He checked on Jimena again; she remained sprawled in peaceful abandon. Then he stepped outside with Cimi perched atop his head, the little creature evidently sensing it would be a slow, gentle day—perfect for sweet dreams.
With Cimi perched atop his head, Jaime felt unusually clear-minded. Thoughts threaded together with ease, ideas linking to memories, shaping themselves into something workable.
He considered the abundance around them—rivers and ocean practically at their doorstep, wood, clay, and stone in endless supply. He nudged a pebble with his foot and watched it skip against a large, head-sized grey rock.
Maybe, he thought, it was time to build baths of their own. Now that they could protect the village, such comforts were no longer impossible luxuries. Venturing out could mean danger. But near the divinity center they'd established, everything would be different. The villagers deserved fuller lives, and he deserved a hot bath surrounded by friends.
With that warm idea lingering, Jaime walked toward his father's house. When he found it empty, he turned toward the maize fields.
Farmers moved between the stalks, pulling out unwanted plants and vines that competed with the maize. Small dogs darted underfoot, chasing their child companions. Barking and laughter mingled in the air as everyone tended the crops. The wide sea of swaying corn—interwoven with squash and bean vines curling around the stalks—was a testament to what they could accomplish together.
Pride swelled in Jaime's chest as he took in the patchwork of colored maize. His gaze swept the rows until it landed on a familiar figure—his father, marked by the distinctive sombrero their mother had once decorated.
It looked worn now. Jaime had often glimpsed his father at night, carefully tending to it, as though maintaining it kept her memory from fraying.
After greeting his father, they stepped into the shade. Several other farmers rested there as well, their children running in chaotic circles around them. The little village dogs did the same with their older counterparts, whose tired red eyes and greying fur mirrored their owners. One man had sunk so deeply into the hammock strung between two trees that he looked as if he might melt into it.
Everyone enjoyed their leisure in their own way—some talking quietly in clusters, others dozing in hammocks. People nodded and waved at Jaime and his father but didn't interrupt. The earth beneath them, softened and shaped by countless farmers' footsteps, gave easily under Jaime as he sat. Cool shade and loose soil made for a surprising comfort amid the harsh midday sun.
There, among the murmurs and the rustling corn, Jaime shared what had been on his mind—the idea of building baths, the materials they had, the places that could work. His father listened, adding a few thoughts of his own. Nearby farmers chimed in as well, drawn into the conversation as naturally as wind slipping between stalks. Piece by piece, the discussion grew until Jaime found himself with enough information to settle on a plan.
The baths were coming.
He left the farmers with a wide smile, excitement buzzing through him. They had already settled on a location. Now he only needed to tell Marisol and Jimena—and get a few hunters to help, assuming Marisol had tended to their injuries by now.
With a light rhythm in his step, Jaime headed off to wake Jimena—if she was still asleep—and then track down Marisol, the person who would be the heart of his plan.
Jaime found Jimena sitting at the table while Chia cooked. Her expression was oddly grave, as though she'd been startled or scolded—or had seen something she wasn't ready to talk about.
After checking whether Chia needed help, and being promptly shooed to sit, Jaime did as he was told and settled beside the anxious Jimena. To his surprise, her hair was now a vivid red, and a thin crimson ring circled her irises. They both raised an eyebrow at each other just as a steaming clay bowl slid in front of them.
A pungent wave of herbal scent hit them. The intense, almost burning smell of the medicinal brew stunned Jaime for a heartbeat—then knocked him out entirely.
He woke an unknown time later to the sight of Jimena gagging and crying as Chia force-fed her. The tiny elderly woman held Jimena in a vice-like grip, one hand pinning her in place while the other shoveled spoon after spoon of the soup into her mouth. The surreal scene was made even stranger by Marisol, who sat neatly across the table, eating her own bowl with genuine enthusiasm.
Jaime's thoughts were thick and sluggish; Cimi had apparently retreated into the gem, taking the clarity and sharpness of mind with him. In its place came a familiar dread—the inevitable, suffocating authority that radiated from the small woman tending them.
"No lloren," Chia scolded, feeding Jaime whenever consciousness drifted too close. "This is a special soup. I have cared for these herbs many years."
And so the chosen endured the tender, relentless care of an old grandmother.