They reached San José in the afternoon. Agustín drove the second half of the way from Juan Vi?as. First, they dropped Mayté and Marley off in Plaza Víquez; then, they headed to Santísima Trinidad. Dagoberto stopped by for the books Agustín had promised him and, with the cargo on the passenger seat, drove back to Guadalupe.

  Agustín greeted his family upon arrival. His parents were working in the funeral home, which was built as an extension of their house. He crossed the reception area, dragging his suitcases across the floor until he reached his room. He locked himself in; he was exhausted from the drive after taking over for Dagoberto.

  Sleep claimed him instantly. For more than three hours, his mind drifted back to the strange "consultant" they had picked up—and asked to be let out in the middle of nowhere just a few kilometers later. He also dreamed of the pact he had left buried, and of a blurred silhouette approaching to dig it up.

  He was awakened by his father, who knocked on the door, asking if he could help prepare one of the bodies that had just arrived. Agustín obeyed, pulling on the first T-shirt he found to walk the path from his bedroom back to the preparation rooms.

  When he arrived, his father was already working on one of the bodies. They were a married couple, both killed in an accident on their way to a family gathering. Agustín didn't complain; he had learned the art of thanatoplasty against his will from a very young age, and although he longed to work in surveying—what he was actually studying—he occasionally found it relaxing to submerge himself in the silence of this labor.

  Absorbed in his work, he didn't notice when his father slipped out to help with some clients inquiring about funeral packages—details about finishes, types of wood, floral arrangements, and so on. His mind remained on the consultant with the feline eyes; he thought about how he should have asked for a name or a business card to clear up the mystery he and his friends had cooked up.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts and resumed applying makeup to the deceased woman. Suddenly, the lights began to flicker. Agustín looked up for a second, thinking the bulbs had simply reached the end of their lifespan. He stepped out for a moment to find a broom, but upon his return, the flickering was even more erratic. He tapped the lights with the tip of the broomstick to stabilize them, and at that exact moment, the radio in the adjoining room blasted to life.

  A chill ran down his spine. He dropped what he was doing and ran to the reception area, but his parents and the clients had vanished. The doors were locked, and the metal shutters were down. He headed to the room where his father had been working to turn down the radio after the apparent power surge.

  Just walk away, Renée

  You won't see me follow you back home

  The empty sidewalks on my block are not the same

  You're not to blame...

  A fresh shiver raced through him as he lowered the volume. As he turned to resume his tasks, the lights failed again. He found himself facing the entrance to the other room and, glancing across the hallway, he saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye—someone who seemed to be leaning against the far wall. The radio kept playing, softer now, repeating the chorus:

  Just walk away, Renée

  You won't see me follow you back home

  Now as the rain beats down upon my weary eyes

  For me it cries...

  He hurried to finish the makeup, but his nerves betrayed him: the compact powder slipped from his hands. He cursed under his breath as he bent down to retrieve it. With the sponge in hand and still on the floor, he froze again. He saw the silhouette standing before the radio in the other room, turning the music back up.

  "Hello?"

  When the lights stopped flickering, he recognized the stranger immediately. The "consultant." He was wearing high-waisted, straight-cut trousers paired with a dark blazer, low-heeled leather boots, and a cream-colored ruffled dress shirt.

  "Good evening," the man replied in a cheerful tone.

  Agustín nearly fell backward, believing he was having a dream within a dream. He rubbed his eyes, bit his tongue, and stammered.

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  "You are Agustín, right? Or do you prefer Vinicio? It seems this petition for a pact is signed by your hand, correct?"

  Agustín nodded without blinking as the man held up the piece of paper where the "contract" had been written—now damp and stained with dirt.

  "Forgive my intrusion, I am so sorry!" the man expressed, stepping into the room and extending a hand to help Agustín up.

  "You! You are..."

  "Ah, yes, it’s me. We’ve met before; you are quite right. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to introduce myself properly then. Not with all your friends present, of course."

  Agustín stood up, accepting the man's help, trying to steady himself so as not to stumble again from the shock.

  "My name is Buer. Great President, leader of fifty legions, master of logic, morals, and natural philosophy; and most importantly, the one who has accepted your request for a contract."

  They stood in silence for a minute. Agustín let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head and looking everywhere as he tried to process the information.

  "Right, right! How much did my friends offer you?"

  "Offer me?"

  "Yes! How much did my friends pay you? How much money?"

  "Why would they offer me money? I wouldn't dismiss an offering, but I have other preferences. Money is of no use to me."

  Agustín let go of Buer’s hand and ran to the reception, where he found the clock marked ten at night. The young man rushed back into the house and entered his parents' room; they were fast asleep. He closed the door carefully so as not to wake them, crossed the living room again, and went back out to the reception. The demon followed him with a slow pace, observing the architecture of the funeral home in detail. Agustín reached the preparation rooms only to find two empty tables—the couple his father had initially asked him to help with was gone.

  "What the hell...?"

  "Would you prefer we find another place to talk? You seem... indisposed."

  Agustín grabbed a ceramic cross hanging above a wooden cabinet, pointing it at Buer.

  "Yes, the pleasure is mine," the demon replied with an air of sarcasm and a half-smile.

  Buer took the cross and set it aside, placing it on the preparation table and taking a step forward. Agustín responded by backing away.

  "This—I’m sorry, excuse me—this is a mistake. I wasn't looking for a real contract."

  "Oh? But this contract looks very genuine."

  "I didn't even make a wish in the contract! I only left it open because I didn't think anyone would respond for any reason. I just wanted to prove they were wrong, that’s all! Obviously! How did I not realize they were going to mess with me like this to win the bet? It had to be Dagoberto. It was him, wasn't it? That’s why he dropped you in the middle of nowhere."

  "Well, this is rather embarrassing. The contract is clear. It states that you sought to 'awaken your curiosity over your skepticism,' which you would pay for with faith and will, detaching yourself from everything displeasing to the one who accepted the deal—that would be me, of course. Furthermore, you made the specific request that whoever accepted the deal must appear in human form—which I have done—and must also be willing to wait for you to decide upon a wish before formalizing the pact."

  "Okay! Okay, look, this is a mistake. A huge one. I had no real intention of making a pact with anyone because, to begin with, I wasn't expecting an answer, as I already mentioned. Can we just leave it at this? I won't say anything to them unless they bring it up. I can... I can pay you if you want, as I said."

  Buer raised an eyebrow in confusion.

  "Can you just leave now? Please."

  "I’m afraid that’s not possible."

  "Why not!?"

  "Because the agreement has already been signed in blood. I cannot leave until one of two conditions is met: 1. That I have granted you the wish you ask of me, or 2. that twenty years have passed since the initiation of the pact, at which point it can be marked as irresolute or renewed. Of course, other clauses support the termination of the contract, but those involve accidental deaths, sickness—"

  "Twenty years!? God damn it..."

  "Well, if this seems like an ordeal to you, consider yourself grateful that the deal wasn't directed at my great superior. In those cases, there is no expiration date."

  Agustín scratched his head, pacing in circles, not knowing what to do.

  "Okay! Fine. Then I’m going to ask for something mundane so you can leave. Alright? Give me... an ice cream. A rum raisin ice cream."

  Buer tried to hide a look of disgust.

  "I’m going to pretend that request didn't offend me. Regardless, I cannot fulfill it."

  "What? Why not?"

  "Because it is not a genuine desire. Besides, I am not some magical Scheherazade in a lamp; my conditions must also be met before I can leave. Even if your genuine desires were that pathetic, my part would still be missing."

  "And how are you going to know if a wish is genuine or if I’m just asking for something to get it over with?"

  Buer began to laugh, a deep, resonant sound. Agustín tried to look irritated, but he only felt foolish, contemplating the demon’s arrogance.

  "How was that bit with the fake clients and the impression of your father? Quite realistic, wasn't it?" Buer asked, chuckling.

  They shared a brief silence, and then Buer continued.

  "Alright, alright, let’s leave it at this for now. I will visit you in a couple of days to give you time to process all of this. Deal?"

  "Whatever... maybe twenty years will pass, and I still won't be able to decide."

  "I am in no hurry. But mortals are; you all are always craving something. I'll see you soon, Vinicio."