They moved along, bouncing their bulbous bodies down the street, searching the ground together. Nobody spoke to one another. They stopped just a block away, faced a couple that were walking down the sidewalk, pleaded with them for money.

Jesus Christ.

Lola walked into the street and grabbed the wallet. She flipped it open, didn’t recognize the handsome face on the driver’s license at first, the type of face to make any woman blush and check her breath. It was the eyes that gave him away. The wallet must have fallen from his pants as she pulled him out of the car.

The man had said something about his wife, she remembered that now. When the animalistic fury had faded from his eyes and he was human for just those few minutes, he seemed to remember something that chilled him to the marrow. He’d wanted Lola to help her.

What if she’s hurt? What if she’s dead?

Lola didn’t know which she preferred. If she was alive, Lola would have to explain to the woman that her husband was killed, that he’d been chewing on people and that Lola had to put a bullet in him. But Lola knew the woman would be nothing more than stripped bones and bloody clothing. The congealed blood coating the man’s face and clothes made sense now.

She pulled the license out, pocketed it, tossed the wallet into the wastebasket beside her.

She felt she owed it to the man whose body lay cold and lifeless in the morgue. As bad as she felt she needed it, that shower was going to have to wait.

TASTE JUST LIKE STRAWBERRIES

Juan trudged down the sidewalk, the bags of groceries swinging by his sides. It was a good thing Manuel’s apartment was only a few blocks away from the restaurant, otherwise Juan would have been lost.

The phone card was burning a hole in his pocket, and he couldn’t wait to hear his family’s voices, even though he knew he’d have to get through his mother-in-law to get to them. He didn’t care. She could call him every name in the book, could insult him until his ear bled. As long as he heard the sweetness of his wife’s voice and the squeaky, innocent voice of his daughter, all would be well.

He’d bought plenty of food for him and Manuel; decided to make Enchiladas Verdes, his personal favorite. The grocery list consisted of four chicken breasts, a pound of tomatillos, two white onions, five Serrano peppers, two cloves of garlic, a bunch of cilantro, and a dozen corn tortillas. He also bought a case of Pacifico to show Manuel he was sorry for what had happened. Juan hoped his cousin understood that he needed the job and that the situation was out of his hands, and he’d already decided that he would give Manuel a bit of money here and there—he owed him anyway.

Juan was excited to show Manuel what he’d brought for dinner. He’d hoped they could feast on some real food, not that pig slop Manuel had been eating, and knock a few back while they reminisced about their childhood together. Always the best of friends, always watching out for each other. Juan needed Manuel to understand that nothing that happened today was anything personal. That if he had a choice, Juan would have spit in Mr. Chan’s eye.