Starglow Basin el espíritu verde

He stared vacantly at Niño, his mind clouded, grasping at fleeting fragments of lucidity. "Carlos?" The name was a ghost to him, slipping through the cracks of his consciousness. He shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion that seemed to pull him further from understanding. No, no, no, he muttered, the words falling into the void, failing to grasp their meaning.

Then a spark of recognition flickered in his fevered eyes. Mi hermano está enfermo. Por favor... necesitamos comida o medicina. Señor, por fa...vor..

The plea was mechanical, stripped of its humanity, like an old, worn-out plea he had used before. It was a dead script, a rote performance for strangers that had lost its original intent. His eyes, wide and bright with the fever’s shine, were fixed on Niño, but they saw nothing clearly.

Thiago pulled himself back from the edge of his delusion, his voice emerging from the fog, tentative and fractured. Me dijeron que encontrara al jefe. ¿Sabes? Dejo de cantar, tú ayudas. ¿Sí?