Chapter 19

I think about passing the bar with just a wave and a friendly “Buenas,”but the smell of fried tortillas pulls me up short. A plate of the thick slabs of corn meal with a hunk of orange cheese on top is my favorite breakfast, and it’s not like I’m late for an appointment with this dude. I’m running down the hill for no good reason to wander up and down the streets of town in case he happens to stroll by, remember me, and care about seeing me again. For all I know, if he even leaves the ship, he’ll pass right by me undetected; by the time I cared enough to notice him, I had few other cares, thanks to Milton. Who knows what the guy actually looks like?