Dr. Valverde taps his pen. “Nieves, your blood is fine. Your heart is fine. Your dramas are not.”

The apple does not spin.

And then: the faint.

She does not faint tonight.

The air smells of cilantro, rust, and overripe plums. Doña Nieves enters, clutching her beaded purse like a rosary. She nods at Don Justo behind the counter. He nods back. They have performed this greeting for thirty years.

She stares at the window. An apple tree is visible three blocks away. She swears it just moved closer.

Nieves touches her chest. Her lips part. A small gasp, like a bird falling from a nest.

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