When Conchita first opened her eyes to this world, she was floating face up in a tub full of cold, frothy white liquid that cooled off her scorching skin. Guillermo knelt next to her, just outside the milky substance that he personally mixed with water, salt, and faith. He stared at her with absolute adoration—she was his creation, after all. Conchita quickly learned to breathe at the sight of Guillermo aspirating; his chest rising up and down at allegro pace elicited a desire in her to mimic it. Mariano stood at the door, his back leaning against the frame as his tired eyes witnessed the birthing scene in a mixture of curiosity and worry. That day changed the brothers forever.

Guillermo never believed he could succeed in life. That was a big part of why he decided to build Conchita—equal parts a distraction and a coping strategy. Unlike Mariano, Guillermo was an anxious wreck, his nerves exacerbated by the presence of strangers or unfamiliar environments. Despite this, Mariano, with five more years of life experience over his little brother, never had an issue in taking care of him. When their grandmother—the only guardian they've ever known—died, this commitment only grew deeper in Mariano. When he was 16, he dropped out of high school to work in the factory he'd already decided would see him age until no more. For 6 days a week, he listens to a lector read the daily newspaper and classic literature as he and his coworkers hunch over their desks, rolling layers and layers of dry tobacco leaf into thick cigars. Despite never having smoked before, the pungent, earthy scent had become Mariano's natural body odor—the hot spots being his fingers.

One night, after Mariano got home from work, Guillermo handed him a flyer. It was an advert for the next humanoid convention with a showing contest for the best built robot. "The price is 2,000 pesos, Mari," Guillermo said, concluding with a sheepish smile, the same one Mariano always folded over. But his complacency had been waning throughout the years. Perhaps something to do with his slipped discs and aching carpal tunnel syndrome.

"And who's gonna take you to San Juan? My car won't make it, ‘manito."

"We can take the train."

"With Conchita? She'll get stolen right from your hands. Es más, can you even take the train?"

It was true; taking a robot anywhere around public transit was a huge risk, but the last question weighed heavily on Guillermo's heart, his breathing instantly hiking. "I can take the train. I'm not a chamaquito, Mari."

"Well, I'm not missing work to go with you two."

"But why? It's 2,000 pesos! You don't even make-" Guillermo stopped himself once Mariano's bloodshot eyes shifted over to meet his. It was the first time Guillermo had noticed just how different Mariano looked nowadays. His slouch had gotten worse and he looked at least twice his age. His fingers had rows of hangnails, his temples fashioned raised veins, even his hair started to take a pale color that wasn't in their family's genetic pool.

Mariano slowly took a stand, a symphony of crackles and pops accompanying his crescendo. He walked towards his bedroom, first passing by Conchita, who was standing just outside the kitchen, pretending not to listen. The sight of her staring at him, not a word leaving her lips, annoyed Mariano. "Good night," he spat.

"Good night, Mari."

The night fell and got up quicker than a determined marathoner. Before morning dawned and the first pale streaks of sunshine landed on the crust of the island, Mariano's alarm was already screaming. Mariano moved slowly that morning, considering whether he should call off and take a point or not. He left his room in search of the nearest calendar to make sure exactly 6 months have passed since his last call-off, but when he walked out of his bedroom, Guillermo wasn't next to Conchita. He assumed he was just in the bathroom and continued to flip through the calendar hanging from the fridge. But suddenly, Conchita said "exposure therapy," as she sat in front of the TV, the History channel playing.

"What?"

"Guillermo is doing exposure therapy. I assisted him in researching it last night." Conchita's eyes remained on the TV, a picture of an indigenous Arawakan tribe mining for gold displayed on the screen with a narrator detailing Juan Ponce De Leon's mighty conquest.

"What are you saying? Where's Guillermo?" Mariano's heart began to pick up in pace, and this time, it wasn't a random heart palpitation.

Conchita explained how Guillermo had gotten up early to take the train around the island to overcome his agoraphobia in preparation for the convention. Her eyes never left the TV screen during her matter-of-fact delivery.

At this information, Mariano lunged at Conchita, his hands finding her throat as he dragged her over the couch and against the wall. The reflex had been dormant inside him for so long. Conchita, unphased, simply stared at Mariano.

"Do you have any idea how panicked Guillermo could be right now? He's probably losing his mind! You've ruined everything! You're... you're-"

Conchita added, "a crutch."

Mariano's eyes widened, "yes, carajo, yes you are!"

Conchita's eyes widened too.

For a moment, memories of Conchita and his brother flooded Mariano's mind. He knew that Guillermo thought of her as not only a sister, but the answer to all their troubles. She was Guillermo's creation but also his saving grace.

Conchita said, "You know I am worth more than 2,000 pesos...but not at a show, not whole." Even softer, she added, "I have seen you making the calculations before."

Mariano didn't feel the need to admit Conchita was right. His hands simply trembled, the metal beneath his grip resisting any damage.

"I am not the one who will be hurt. In fact, this will not hurt me at all."

"I don't care." Mariano's grip tightened, but nothing budged. Conchita was effortlessly resilient.

"If this is what you want," Conchita's hands easily pried Mariano's off of her. She walked, for the last time, to the kitchen pantry and pulled out a mallet the size of her arm. With firm hands, she handed off her life. Her widened eyes began to well up in milky white tears, the heaviness of the beads breaking into slick streams—her last imitation. "This will not hurt me at all."

"You already said that," he sniffed.

Just as the police knocked on their front door, Mariano gave the first blow.