“Such a sad man,” I said. I eyed Señor Líder as I tidied his room. He waited on the veranda as he did each day; woolen blanket folded on his lap, his mouth curved down in a glum arch as he stared at the foothills of the Andes. “I feel sorry for him.”
Milena snorted. “Not me.”
“If you knew what I knew.” She kept one eye aimed at the balcony as she said it, as if the old man might swoop in like a demon to silence us.
But demon he was, I found out days later, talking to Rocia in the kitchen. When she told me all that man had done, I shuddered. How could we let him live here all these years?
It was I who decided to bring him the tea. Black nightshade brought a sleep, then death. So I brewed the manchineel instead.
With all the history buffs who participate on Pegman and some recent headlines, I’m not going to say anything more. Although manchineel tea would be agonizing… However it might not be all that safe to prepare! So yeah, definitely fiction all the way around.