Pressing his hands to his face, he says to Fabiola, “I had dreams of my mother and my father. It was the craziest thing I’ve ever encountered.”

“Your father? You told me your mother left him.”

“I did? I don’t remember. But yes, my mother did leave my father. Even though it was a dream, it sure felt real. That’s the first time I’ve seen him since my mother left him all those years ago. In the dream, I was back in the hospital. At first, my mother was dying all over again, and then things got strange. I couldn’t leave the hospital room. The door was stuck, but then I got it open and I was back in our old house. I was a young man again. And I walked into our bathroom and I needed to shave, and before I knew it, I was having a confrontation with my father. He stole my mother’s jar of change. I chased him to a shed, where he grabbed a can of gasoline, and then he burned down the house that I grew up in.”

“Our dreams are trying to tell us things about ourselves.”

Jack wants to believe that. But all his life, he’s worked in a corporate environment. Built companies up. Made them huge profits. He isn’t into the spiritual side of being. Not into anything magical or make-believe. Or Buddhism or Taoism. Hell, he is barely a Christian. He is having a hard time swallowing any of this. But then, he had packed a bag and flown to South America, so there must be something calling him. Landed at an airport and started hitchhiking. Didn’t even tell anyone he was leaving.

“Look, I’m not a spiritual man,” he says. “Not really even religious, for that matter. For the sake of me buying into what you’re suggesting, let’s say I believed even a hint of what you’re trying to tell me. What is my dream telling me that I don’t already know?”

“Sounds like you maybe never dealt with your mamá’s passing. Or her leaving your father. Maybe the fire is a way of removing something. But then you chase him. Like you’re after something. What are you chasing, Jack? Did your father or mother speak to you?”

“My father did speak to me, but it was a lot of crazy nonsense. Like I told you, I haven’t seen that man since my mother left him. I don’t even know if he’s alive. Muerto, maybe.” He feels sluggish, as if his mind were covered with a thick film. Before Fabiola can say anything else, he asks, “Could I maybe get a cup of coffee, assuming that’s what you’re drinking?”

“Of course, Jack.”