What am I doing starting a new story? Oh well, Coco was a good movie

"39 degrees. Sorry mijo but you're not going out today."

Miguel sighed in disappointment and lay back in bed as he started to comprehend his condition. He had not been feeling so good since yesterday when he was practicing with the mariachis in the main square. Many had commented on how he missed notes and cues which was very uncharacteristic of him. Miguel had denied it and attributed his poor performance to an off day. As soon as he got home, he went straight to bed. He thought that it was merely frustration that took the form of drowsiness. The last thing he expected was fatigue and a fever. When his mother finally confirmed that his temperature was above normal, Miguel conceded that yes, he needed rest.

"When I finally get to play music in the square , I get sick." Miguel muttered as he lay on his side and angrily put the blanket over himself.

"Hey, you've gotten sick before Miguel, this isn't anything new."

It wasn't, Miguel had gotten sick many times when he was much younger. Those were normal days when all he was missing was a day of school or a chance to play with his cousins, not a musical performance in the plaza that he didn't have to keep secret from his family.

"You already played during Dia de Los Muertos last month."

He did play the piece during Dia de Los Muertos.

Miguel felt his mother's hand on his forehead. He lay still as his mother kissed him and walked out of the room. As soon as he heard the door closed, he lay on his back and felt his forehead with his hand. It was hotter than usual. He looked at his guitar that was leaning on the wall, just an arm away. He grabbed it and held it close to himself. His head was throbbing and he felt much weaker but he was still strong enough to sit up, hold the guitar and strum. That is if he concentrated hard enough. He strummed the intro of the song he made after the events of last years Dia de los Muertos. He has not shown it to anyone outside his family yet and he was planning to play it that night for the first time in public in the plaza.

Say that I'm crazy or call me a fool.

He sang that first part and stopped himself as soon as he heard the crack in his voice and felt the rasp in his throat. Even my throat hurts.

He had considered sneaking out to the plaza and performing but how could he when he couldn't even sing properly.

Maybe I should take a nap first. When Miguel had fevers back when he was a kid, he would usually sleep and feel better as soon as he woke up. He prayed it would work the same way then.

Miguel propped his guitar carefully on the wall and put the blanket over himself and squeezed his eyes shut. If he slept the whole morning and afternoon, he should be okay by tonight.

He had woken up a few times that day but was still able to sleep a good amount of hours. The only problem was he didn't feel better when he woke up, he felt worse. At that that time though, he interpreted it as a feeling of just waking up. He was just tired because he just slept and not because his head was pounding or his world was spinning. Miguel wore his red jacket over his shirt, changed to pants and grabbed his guitar. Those movements alone left Miguel exhausted and he found himself back on the bed coughing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath that was interrupted by more coughs.

He looked at the clock on the wall. It was four. His family leaves the workshop at five. If he didn't want to be caught, he had to leave then and there and through the back entrance.

He put his hood over his head and snuck out from the backdoor. Even under the hot Mexican sun, Miguel was cold, yet he was sweating. His wet body only making the wind colder. He hug his guitar close. It was a cold piece of wood yet the idea of hugging something still made him feel warm. As soon as his house was out of sight, he slowed his footsteps and stopped every few minutes to rest

When he heard the faint noises of people practicing their instruments in the plaza, he sped up a little, and put down his hood to get a better view of how far the plaza would be.

"Just a few more steps." Miguel whispered to himself as he saw an empty bench to the side of the plaza to rest.

As soon as he was only a few feet away, someone sat on the bench and grinned at him. "Sorry muchacho, elders come first."

If Miguel felt a little better, he probably would have stomped on the old man's shoes. If he felt a little better though, he wouldn't have been angry over something as shallow as that.

Miguel walked towards the gazebo in the middle, willing himself to keep straight and to be alert. "Excuse me, I'd like to play tonight."

"Sure, I'll add you to the list of performers, you'll be playing after Julio de los Santos." The manager pointed her pen towards someone to the side. Miguel could not even focus his eyes on anyone. He didn't see a reason to, they would always inform him anyway if it was his turn.

He leaned on the wall to the side of the gazebo where they would be performing and slid to the floor. He was in one of the darker and more obscure corners of the plaza, no one would notice him napping there if needed. He watched the performances, one by one. His head was throbbing, his eyes were blurring and he felt like he was losing focus. Three performances in and Miguel found a way to divert his attention away from the pain and discomfort in his body. He would watch the guitarists' fingerings on the fret and mimic the movements in his own guitar.

Before he knew it, he heard the name Julio de los Santos. He quickly stood up and held the guitar higher only to notice a red speck on the wood. He touched it. It was wet. Is this blood?

He took a closer look and brought it to his nose. That was when he felt the blood trickling down to his fingers.

"Wait, what." Miguel whispered as he felt the sticky liquid with his fingers. He ran out of the plaza and into an alley. The sun was setting but there was still enough light for him to see his bloodied hands and the specks of blood on his guitar. He cursed his bad luck. He didn't bring any tissue. He could not perform with blood all over his guitar and his hands. He couldn't wipe it in his clothes either.

"Miguel! Miguel!"

Most days, Miguel would have tried to run and hide. Hearing his papa's voice at that time though felt more like a saving grace than anything else even if he knew he was going to get a sermon from his abuelita for sneaking out with a fever.

"Papa, I'm here. Please help." Miguel said, loud enough for the voice to hear. He heard footsteps getting closer, relaxed and closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was his father whisper what could have been curses and the last thing he felt was careful hands pick him up.

Lo siento papa.

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