Behind Hunter, Tara asks, “Everything okay?”

“Gonna have to figure something out in the morning,” he says. “I gotta get to California.”

“What’s in California?”

“My father passed away.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Appreciate that. But anyway, I’m the executor of his estate. Uncle is wanting me out there.”

“Well,” Tara says, “I best let you get changed and rest up.”

“Yeah. Listen, I appreciate all the hospitality.”

“Maybe I’ll see you in the a.m.?”

“Maybe so.”

After changing his clothes, Hunter flops down on a bunk bed while Itch and Nugget sit up playing cards and drinking beer. He decides to phone Sid, see how he is doing. The phone rings several times before a younger voice picks up. “Blake?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Hunter. I was calling to check on Sid.”

“He’s doing better. Keep him off the booze, he’s not as bad.”

“That’s good.”

“Make it to California?”

“Not yet. In Colorado. I had an accident—just need to get my bike straightened out, and I’ll get there soon.” There is silence. Hunter can’t bite his tongue any longer, so he gets to the point. “Did you ever meet your real father?”

“I did. And I’ve met my half brother, too, so don’t be a stranger.”

JACK

JACK

Blistered hands raised, Jack and Matías slip out the back of the scrap-wood shanty. Eyes turn with rifles trained on them. Men in deep-forest camouflage, with stern faces. Jack’s heart is thumping fast as men move forward, hands reaching, grabbing, jerking and directing Matías and Jack, then Carlos and his family. Eyes look at them as if they are fools. As if maybe they should have run.

Booted feet collapse them to their knees. Jack goes down with ease, keeping his hands raised. The questions come.

“¿Quiénes son estos hombres?” “¿De dónde son?” “¿Cómo llegaron aquí?”

Carlos speaks, then pauses. He hesitates, eyeing Matías, who switches to English as he explains why he and Jack are here. The American is a journalist, Matías lies. Doing an investigative piece on the struggles of campesinos in Peru.

Doubt falls over the commanding soldier’s face with a scar that runs from the corner of his mouth down to his neckline, jagged and pink. He’s shaking his head. Turning to one of the other soldiers, he whispers something. The soldier walks to their military-green jeep, searches for something, comes back with a sheaf of paperwork. They eye the wad of papers, then eye Jack. Comparing something. The commanding soldier asks in barely understandable English, “Wha . . . is . . . joor . . . name?”

There’s a knot of nervousness in his throat. Fearing for his life, he says, “Jack.”

The man squints, says something to the other soldier, who points and nods excitedly, saying, “¡Sí ! ¡Yack!”