Samuel stepped off the minibus with an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. It was like a breath exhaled behind his heart. It didn't hurt. No. Of course not. It was just that he had to find a solution.
"Damn disease," Samy thought.
He walked down the median, two more blocks, then crossed the street. Just as he passed by the tortilla shop, a trigger in his stomach set off a craving that, sooner or later—sooner rather than later, he knew—he would have to satisfy. He turned toward the shop to check if they had those little Styrofoam plates with rice and those plastic cups full of salsa.
"So what, some rice tacos before I get started, or what?" he thought. "No, no, no. First things first, like Coach says: first things first," he reaffirmed.
He raised his left hand and read the address written on his palm.
"This is it," he muttered to himself. He looked around. The houses, while not the most beautiful in the world, were definitely different from the ones in his neighborhood. It was a nice street. He eyed the vine-covered wall, a little neglected, the small garden, and the old but shiny Caribe parked in the driveway.
"Well, she must be good—really good," he told himself, as if giving himself a pep talk to move forward.
The house impressed him. Not because it was luxurious, but because it was better and nicer than his own, and he knew what it cost to build a home.
His stomach growled.
And just as he thought he saw someone behind the upstairs curtains, a wave of shame washed over him, making him turn around and walk to the next corner.
"What's wrong, Samy?" he muttered. But even he couldn't handle everything, all at once.
"Damn disease," he mumbled in frustration.
Even so, Samy knew he had to go inside that house and find the solution to his problem.
One of his gym buddies had told him about a woman who could find anything that had been lost. He said she was hired by hundreds of people searching for something they couldn't locate. She could tell them exactly where to find what they needed, what they desperately sought.
He had heard about her from his friend Manuel, who had his brand-new blue Suburban stolen. The witch—the lady—had told him where it was, and sure enough, it turned out that some federal agents had taken it. Getting the car back and locking up those cops was worth every penny she charged.
"Anything that's lost or whatever you're looking for?"
"Yeah, Samy. Anything."
"Oh, man, so if I lost my Martita, would the witch tell me where she is?"
"Exactly."
"And if I urgently needed a solution to a problem, would she tell me where to find it?"
"Damn, Samy, now you've thrown me off. I don't know, man. But I do know that she's never failed to find what people ask her to find."
Samy remembered that conversation and steeled himself.
"Alright, Manuelito. So, where do I find her? How do I get in touch with her?"
"Are you really gonna see her, Samy?"
"Hell yeah, Manuelito. Maybe she can help."
"But Samy, there's always a price to pay. And she charges a lot."
Samy had frowned at that moment, just like he frowned now as he remembered his reply:
"Money's there to fix problems, Manuelito."
Manuel had scribbled down an address on a piece of paper and handed it to him. A couple of days later, convinced, Samy had written it down on his hand and made his way there.
Now, standing in front of the witch's house, he turned back the way he had come and walked toward it. Just two houses away from the green-and-white house he was about to visit, his stomach growled again—louder this time—and he remembered the tortilla shop. He hesitated, then spotted a white metal stand in the distance. With luck, tacos.
And parked right beside the stand—two police cars and three taxis.
"That's the place."
Samy knew that when it came to street food, you should always eat where the cab drivers or the cops eat. No fails.
At the stand selling guisado tacos, he greeted the officers and the rest of the customers, then ordered two chicharrón prensado tacos and two chile relleno tacos. He loaded them up with salsa and, after the ritual "Buen provechito" to the others, dug in.
"Oh, come on, man, no need for that!" said one of the taxi drivers in a singsong voice. "If it isn't 'The Lightning Bolt' himself! Am I right, champ?" he added, wiping his mouth before extending a hand to Samy in greeting.
Samy, slightly flustered, eyes wide, took a moment to react as everyone at the taco stand looked on expectantly. He quickly swallowed the bite he was chewing and wiped the grease from the chicharrón and the salsa from the corners of his lips.
"Yeah, man, the one and only," he finally said, shaking the man's hand with a mix of pleasure and embarrassment.
"For real, bro?"
"As real as it gets, officer," Samy replied, quickly taking another bite.
The taquero hurried to grab a camera, and Samy gladly posed for a picture with the taco vendor, the stand in the background. Then, he signed autographs for everyone gathered at the stall while passersby greeted him as if they knew him or at least recognized him as the champion boxer he was.
Samy had two more tacos and a guava soda before thanking everyone and saying his goodbyes.
"Go break some skulls, champ," one of the customers told him.
Samy raised his arms in a triumphant Rocky pose as the people at the stand clapped for him.
"Time to break some skulls!" he shouted back, and the whole crowd laughed.
What did it matter if they didn't know he was retired? What did it matter if they didn't fully recognize him? What mattered was that Samy had walked away feeling re-empowered, ready to face whatever he had to face at the witch's house.
Now standing at the gate, he looked inside.
"Who beat Mascatuercas? Me. Who knocked out Luisito 'The Ninja' López in the first round? Me. Who married Martita? That's right, champ: YOU CAN DO ANYTHING!" he whispered to himself in self-motivation before pulling the chain to ring the bell, ignoring the doorbell. As he did, he made noises like an imaginary crowd shouting, "Bravo!"
The boy came out and, offering the faintest of smiles, gestured for him to come inside.
At the entrance, just before stepping in, the boy politely asked him to go ahead. Samy followed his lead and, once inside, took a seat in the designated chair. The boy handed him a glass of agua de jamaica, which Samy drank half of in one go without hesitation. The boy refilled his glass and told him the lady would be down soon.
"You got it, boss," Samy said, getting comfortable in his seat while he waited.
The woman slowly made her way down the stairs while Samy finished his second glass of jamaica. She smiled at him kindly as he stood up to greet her.
"Thank you, thank you, young man."
"Oh, don't say that, ma'am. I'm not that young anymore. But yeah, people always assume I am, don't they?"
"No doubt about it," she replied, filling Samy's glass again and pouring half a glass for herself.
They took their seats, and the woman welcomed him.
"My dear, I'm truly sorry that you're facing a situation so difficult that it's led you here. I hope I can be of some help."
"Thank you, ma'am. The truth is, yeah, I'm desperate. I really hope you can help me—I don't know what else to do. But if it's not too much to ask, please talk to me casually, señora. No need for formalities."
"Of course, champ," she said, making Samy blush. "Tell me, how can I help you?"
"Well, ma'am, the thing is... my little boy is dying, and I've already tried everything. We put our house up for sale to pay for some tests and treatments. I'm about to sell my shop and gather the money to save him. But so far, they don't even know what's wrong, and by the time they figure it out, either it'll be too late, or we won't have any money left to afford whatever treatment he needs."
"But, son, you do know what I do, right?"
"Yes, yes, of course. My friend told me you help find what people can't seem to locate."
The woman smiled, satisfied.
"And so, what is it that you think I can do for you?"
"Señora," Samy said, adopting an expression of absolute seriousness, "I need you to help me find my son's health. Or a cure for his illness. A way to save his life."
"Oh, dear Lord!"
The boy stepped back on the staircase just as the sound of footsteps echoed from the floor above.
"It's crazy, isn't it, señora?"
The boy stifled a quiet laugh while the woman shot him a reproachful glance. Then, subtly, she looked up toward the ceiling, where the footsteps continued, engaged in their own silent ritual.
The phone rang.
Samy watched the woman expectantly.
"I can try to find a solution. Yes," she said, almost convincing herself. "I should be able to. After all, it's a matter of finding it—finding a cure... finding a way. Yes, I think I know how."
"Perfect, ma'am! No time to waste, then!"
"You need to bring me a picture of your sick boy, another one of him healthy. All the medical reports they've given you. And yes, a piece of his clothing too."
Samy stared at her, unblinking. Then, suddenly, laughter burst from his face.
The woman looked at him in surprise, while the boy positioned his little face between the bars of the railing, peering through as much as he could. Upstairs, the footsteps continued their measured pacing.
"I've got it all!" he finally said.
"Really?"
"Of course, ma'am! I came well-prepared. I've got everything. Can we start?" he asked with absolute humility and a touch of tenderness.
"There will be a price to pay, Samy."
"Of course, ma'am. No way around that. Just tell me how much and why it's so expensive."
The woman smiled knowingly.
"To start with, it's a hundred—"
The boy cleared his throat. The woman shot him an annoyed glance, then looked at Samy, who smiled innocently. She returned the gesture with a genuine smile.
"To start with," she corrected quickly, "it'll be eighty thousand now. And when we find the solution—" she paused, forcing herself not to look at the boy or meet Samy's eyes, "and... and when I find the solution, another twenty thousand."
"Gladly, ma'am! But I have this." He pulled out a wad of cash and two Rolex watches. "Will you take these instead of the cash, ma'am?"
The woman looked at him with approval and nodded without hesitation.
"One more thing. The solution might come at an additional price, you know?"
"A surgery, a treatment, something like that?"
"Or something much worse. Sometimes the price for what we seek is greater than the material cost. Sometimes, we must pay dearly to recover what has been lost."
"Well, hell, ma'am! You stay calm, and I'll be the nervous one," he said, winking.
The woman looked at him, exhaled slowly to steady herself, and began the ritual. She took an empty glass from the lower cabinets of the dining room sideboard and glanced at the dozens of dusty, upside-down glasses stored on the upper shelves.
"Please, Lord, let what I am looking for appear, for I cannot see it," she whispered, almost inaudibly. She settled into her chair, placed her hands together in a triangular formation with her fingertips touching over the photos and the child's sock, and began the ritual.
The witch seemed to age rapidly; the agua de jamaica in their glasses drained little by little, growing darker and redder. A barrage of thoughts flooded Samy's mind—his memories mixed with his desires, and he couldn't stop seeing Martita, his wife, and his son.
The footsteps upstairs grew faster, heavier, circling the upper floor. Samy glanced at the staircase. The boy was coming down to turn on the living room lights before scurrying back, gripping the railing and peering between the bars, murmuring something under his breath in sync with the woman.
Suddenly, the footsteps stopped. A door creaked open upstairs.
The phone started ringing.
Samy didn't flinch.
The house lights flared blindingly bright as total darkness swallowed the outside world, the stormy afternoon pressing in on them with eerie patience. The bulbs flickered, the footsteps—light and quick, then heavy and clumsy—raced down the hallway above, rushed behind the boy, and slammed against the front door.
A bolt of lightning struck the entrance, and the thunder shook the entire house. Hail pounded against the windows. The lights stabilized, though the sky outside remained swallowed in an unnatural dusk.
"Your son will die. I'm so sorry," the woman announced.
"Yeah, well, I already know that. That's why I came to you—to look for another way, to find a way out of this situation."
The witch looked at him, her eyes welling with tears. She nodded.
"There is a way."
"I knew it!" Samy leaped from his seat, clapping.
"This is nothing to celebrate, Samuel."
"Is it a way to save my boy's life?"
"Yes."
"Then let's celebrate!" he declared with conviction.
"Samuel, the price is very high."
"I'll pay it, ma'am. I don't know how, but I will."
"I do know how."
"Well, then, that's settled. Tell me how."
The witch stared at him, pressed her lips together, leaned back, and delivered the verdict:
"With your life."
"What!?"
"You'll have to give your life for your son's."
Now Samy leaned back, stunned, and they both sat in silence, deep in thought, until a loud hiccup—courtesy of the tacos de guisado—brought them back to reality at that dining room table.
The boy did not laugh.
"Alright, ma'am, tell me what I need to do."
The witch looked at him and jotted down instructions on a napkin before handing it to Samuel. He took it and read what was written.
"Ah, damn. Well, yeah, that makes sense, doesn't it?"
The woman gave him a knowing nod.
"So, I take out this life insurance policy and... just when the time comes, I'll step back into the ring, return to the fight, and take a beating until the very end, right?" he asked with a sad smile.
The witch, equally sorrowful, nodded.
"Until that date... until the end, Samy. In the meantime, there will be tests and treatments."
"Alright then," Samy said, standing up and bidding the witch farewell. "Thank you for everything, and may the Lord bless you. Thank you for saving my little boy's life."
The witch smiled at him. He walked out of the house and, as he reached the gate, glanced at the boy. With a hint of complicity, he said:
"See you soon, champ."