A short Hispanic man walks in, wearing a crisp striped sport shirt and immaculate khakis with a gleaming brown leather belt and loafers. He’s probably forty. He comes over to the table, kisses Joe Strong on the cheek, and slips into the chair by him. The new customer leans over to give Rasta a scratch on the head before he reaches across the table to shake hands with the new guy. “I’m Chewy Villegas,” he says.

Not Chewy . . . Chuy. “I’m Manfred Bernardo,” the new guy says.

“Did Joe help you get settled?”

“I’d still be moving furniture and boxes if he and Bobo hadn’t shown up. There’s not that much more to go. I can unpack in increments.”

Chuy bends down to pet the dog. “How’s Rasta been?” he asks his partner.

Joe laughs. “Ferocious. Scared Manfred to death with his vicious fangs. At least Mr. Snuggly stayed on his side of the road.”

Though Chuy’s eyes are marked by crow’s feet, his hair does not show a trace of gray. His voice is soft and has a very slight accent, maybe more a careful choice of words, that indicates he was not originally from the United States. He seems to be as muscular as his partner.

A man in his sixties enters, an electronic chime on the door announcing his arrival. Like Chuy, he’s of Hispanic origin, but otherwise the two men are nothing alike. The newcomer is cadaverous, and his skin tone is much darker than Chuy’s caramel. There are deep creases in the older man’s cheeks. He’s maybe five feet five inches in his cowboy boots, and he’s wearing a white shirt and an ancient black suit with a black Stetson. His only adornment is a string tie with a hunk of turquoise acting as a clasp. The older man nods politely at the group and goes to sit by himself at one of the small tables at the front window. He removes his hat, revealing thinning black hair. Manfred opens his mouth to ask him over, but Bobo puts a hand on Manfred’s arm. “The Rev sits alone,” Bobo says in a low voice, and Manfred nods.

Since he’s sitting facing the window, Manfred can see a fairly steady stream of people going in and out of the convenience store. The two gas pumps are out of his range of sight, but he assumes that each person going into the store has a vehicle that is getting filled. “It’s a busy time at the Gas N Go,” he comments.

“Yeah, Shawn and Creek never come in for lunch. Sometimes for supper,” Bobo says. “Creek has a brother, Connor—he’s fourteen? Fifteen? He’s at school in Davy.”

“Davy is north of here?”