New Skin

A high-pitched whistle jerks me awake. I'm disoriented for a second, hand instinctively reaching for the revolver before I remember where I am.

Miguel stands in the kitchen, lifting a kettle off the stove. "Buenos días, sleeping beauty."

I blink, confused. "How long was I out?"

"Few hours." Miguel pours hot water into a mug. "You were dead to the world when I got back from dropping Maria off. Figured you needed the rest."

I rub my face, embarrassed at letting my guard down so completely. Sleeping that deeply in an unfamiliar environment usually gets you robbed or worse.

"There's clean towels in the bathroom if you want to shower," Miguel says, cracking eggs into a pan. "You look like you could use one, no offense."

The bathroom is small but clean. I peel off Miguel's careful bandage work and examine the stitches. Looks professional, tight, minimal scarring if I'm lucky. The hot water feels like salvation, washing away days of sweat and fear. I'm careful with the wound, letting water run over it gently.

When I emerge, Miguel's waiting with a fresh bandage. He re-dresses my arm with practiced hands.

"While you were sleeping, I made some calls," he says, taping down the gauze. "Got something for you."

He pulls a driver's license from his pocket and hands it to me. The face isn't mine, but close enough, same general features, similar enough height and weight.

"Guy moved back to Puerto Rico last month," Miguel explains. "Good enough for employment, cashing checks, street patrols."

I examine the ID. "José Ramírez," I read aloud. "How'd you get this?"

"You are not the only one with secrets." Miguel shrugs, turning back to the stove. "Eat something, then we'll get you some clothes that aren't covered in blood."

Miguel's room is sparse but organized, military corners on the bed, a small desk with neatly arranged papers. He rummages through his closet, pulls out a bright turquoise and white patterned shirt.

"Cuban style," he says with a half-smile. "Should fit your cover story."

He adds a pair of worn jeans that look about my size. "These should work. When you find a white hat, the image will be complete."

The clothes fit well enough. The shirt's loud pattern isn't my style, but it blends with the Miami aesthetic I've seen. The jeans hang a little loose but will do.

Over lunch consisted of rice, beans, and eggs, Miguel studies me. "So, what's your plan now?"

"Haven't thought that far ahead," I admit. "Find work. Get money. Figure out the rest."

Miguel nods, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out fifty dollars. "For saving Maria. It's not much, but it'll help you rent a place in one of the cheaper neighborhoods."

I stare at the money. Real, usable 1978 cash. "I can't take this."

"You can and you will." He pushes it across the table with a newspaper. "Last section has room listings. Find something today if you can."

"Why so generous?"

Miguel's expression turns serious. "I owe you for Maria. And maybe... maybe we can help each other." He pauses. "I've got a situation. Something I need to get out of. Not today, but soon, I might need someone I can trust."

"And that's me? A stranger?"

"A stranger who jumped three armed men." Miguel shrugs. "That counts, Jose." He grin.

When we finish eating, Miguel grabs his car keys. "I can drive you around, help you find a place."

I shake my head, pocketing the money and newspaper. "Thanks, but I want to walk. Get a feel for the neighborhood."

I leave Miguel's place with fifty dollars, borrowed clothes, and a fake ID burning a hole in my pocket. The midday heat wraps around me as I walk toward downtown, thoughts racing faster than my footsteps.

Two days in 1978 and I've already been almost robbed, killed, and somehow tangled with Colombian drug dealers. Smart move, Carlos. Real genius strategy.

I tap my watch and check the time. Past noon.

I need stability first. A legitimate income stream, a place to sleep that isn't someone's couch or car. Something low-risk while I figure out the rules of this time-travel game.

I turn down a side street, heading toward the cheaper neighborhoods Miguel mentioned, when a faded sign catches my eye: "HELP WANTED - NIGHT SHIFT - APPLY INSIDE."

The convenience store is small, with flickering fluorescent lights and dusty shelves. Through the window, I see an older man behind the counter, reading a magazine. The sign says "Manny's 24-Hour Mart."

Perfect. Night shift means fewer customers, less scrutiny, and time to plan my next moves.

I straighten my borrowed shirt, run a hand through my hair, and push open the door. A bell jingles overhead.

The old man looks up, assessing me with tired eyes. "Help you?"

I gesture to the sign. "Looking for work. I'm good with numbers, reliable, and I don't mind overnight hours."

He squints. "Got ID?"

I pull out Miguel's gift, my new identity. "José Ramírez, at your service."

The old man, Manny, examines my ID. After a brief interview where I demonstrate I can count change and speak English, he hires me on the spot.

"Twenty bucks a night, eight-hour shift," he explains, showing me around the cramped store. "Cash at the end of each shift."

I nod, mentally calculating. Two-fifty an hour. In 2025, I'd make that in fifteen minutes at minimum wage. But here, it's barely enough to rent a room and eat.

Speaking of eating, I notice the prices as we walk the aisles. Bread for 35 cents, milk for 80 cents a gallon, cigarettes for 60 cents a pack. It's surreal. By 2025, that gallon of milk will cost five bucks, and cigarettes will be over ten dollars. I could stock up now and… but no, they'd spoil long before my birth.

Manny points to an ancient mechanical cash register. "Ring everything up here. And write down each sale in this book." He taps a lined notebook. "Product, price, time. I check it against the register tape."

I stare at the antique machine with its physical buttons and hand crank. No scanner, no digital display, no automated inventory system. Every transaction requires manual entry and physical documentation. What a pain in the ass compared to the touchscreens I'm used to.

"First shift tomorrow night, ten to six," Manny says, handing me a vest with the store logo.

As he continues explaining inventory procedures, a sharp knock interrupts us. A man in his thirties with slicked-back hair peers on us, pointing at his watch.

"We're busy," Manny calls, but then waves him in anyway. "Regular customer," he explains to me. "Go ahead, consider this your training."

The man strides to the counter. "Pack of Redsigs," he says, slapping down a dollar.

I find the cigarettes behind the counter and ring him up. As I hand him his change, he leans in.

"Hey, you got good condoms? Not the cheap Chinese shit. Something quality."

I scan the small selection behind the counter, spotting a familiar gold box.

"Dulex," I say, reaching for them. "European quality. The equivalent of a Ralex among condoms."

He grins, sliding over another three dollars. "That'll work."

I bag the purchase and hand it over with a nod. "All the best for fuck's sake."