With an oppressive cheeriness the sun beat down upon the back garden. Rows of dainty flowers smiled under the light and heat, reflecting joy and hope. All of this, sadly, was lost on Julio as he toiled for another.

Rough hands made strong years before they ever touched trowel or spade, turned dirt here, pulled weeds from there. He wiped his brow with a heavy forearm, a futile act as one was as dirty as the other. But in the action, his gaze was lifted to the house, two stories of brick, wood, and memory.

His place was not to judge, nor was it even to comment. No, he knew his place well. He did not mind, as men of lowly station are not called upon to make many decisions. Still, the decisions he had made weighed heavily upon him.

Old habit, not yet dimmed by a mountain of sin, led his hand about the four points of a cross before presenting his thumb to be kissed in benediction.

This he did and turned once again to his work, muttering lowly, “Una casa de locos…a house of madness, it is.”