“Chula, I will answer a question with a question. Have you finished transcribing the riveting story of my adventures among those who are in the twilight world before death?”

“I’ll finish it in two weeks,” I said. “I composed the story in my head while I was being held captive by a mad scientist, and I somehow was able to access that part of my mind while I recently had amnesia. I recovered from the amnesia when a zombie kissed me.”

“Your adventures are almost as exciting as my own, little bat! What will you give in exchange for the weavings?”

“What about the second installment of my payment?”

“The weavings are so especial and valuable, are they not?” he said. “What price is life?”

“Real life is priceless, but zombified life should be on the clearance rack.”

“Or is it even more precious for having almost been lost?”

“Don Pedro, you are a shifty little bastard. Yes, you can keep the second installment in exchange for two cloths. I need them as soon as possible. Where are you?”

“The second and final installment of your payment,” he said. “I came to the City because I knew you would need me. Let us meet in thirty minutes at the same restaurant as the last time.”

Last time, we’d met at a waterfront bistro. “Somewhere else?” I asked.

“It must be there, little bat, or not at all. Bring what you have written so far.”

I said good-bye to the crafty little fellow and took a quick glance at the notebooks. I would have liked to clean up the story, add interesting metaphors, delete redundancy, and develop the imagery, but perhaps I could do that if Don Pedro gave me a chance at the copyedited manuscript.

I put the composition books in my backpack and walked quickly toward the restaurant.

Because it was the middle of a chilly gray afternoon, the restaurant’s deck was empty except for Don Pedro. He was sitting at the table nearest the bay, dark green water lapping only a few yards away.

I glanced around and saw one of his bodyguards/followers, leaning against the wall of the building. I took a deep breath and walked toward the table. I kept my eyes on the gray wood planks beneath my feet and took a seat that faced away from the water.

“Good afternoon, Don Pedro.”

He had a pot of tea in front of him, and he poured a cup for me. “Mijita, I am quite delighted to see you well again.”

“I’m glad to be well.” I took a sip of tea and then reached into my backpack and took out the notebooks. “I’m about halfway through. The weavings?”

His old brown leather shoulder bag hung from the chair. He placed it on his lap and withdrew a package wrapped in plastic. “Use them wisely, Milagro de Los Santos.”