Hands reach in and fumble with Jack’s seat belt release. Both men are thrown to the orange dust. Bright sunlight stings Jack’s eyes. Still trying to catch up to the situation, he hears Matías saying, “What are you doing? You can’t do this.”

“¡Cállate, puto! ” a man growls, and Matías wisely shuts his mouth.

Hurt flows through Jack’s limbs. Hands are maneuvering his body, rolling him facedown in the dust. Twist and pull, wrist over wrist, and the next thing he feels is plastic zip ties lacing and cinching his wrists together. Looking up, all he can make out against the glaring sun is a blur of dark skin and dark hair. A hood goes over his head, and his heartbeat ramps up as it occurs to him that this could be how it all ends.

Hands guide Jack from lying facedown, up to his knees, then to his feet. Shoving him from behind. “Anda, gringo,” a voice commands him. Walk. One foot in front of the next, he shuffles forward nervously. A hand grabs his shoulder, jerks him to a stop. There’s the sound of a latch. The unbarring. Something being released. Next thing Jack knows, hands are gripping him from the front, pulling him up into a vehicle. He feels whatever he’s standing on—a tailgate or truck bed—give and sway with another person’s weight. “Matías?” Jack says.

“Yeah, it’s me, Jack,” Matías pants. “This ain’t good, my friend.”

Then a door closes, and Jack feels the cold grip of panic.

ANNE

ANNE

The figure lays facedown, haloed by a crimson pool as dark and glossy as used engine oil. Kneeling, Anne reaches out and gingerly touches the back of Mitch’s head.

Jerking upward, he plants his palms on the bloody floor and pushes up to his knees, searching for balance. He gazes into Anne’s eyes. One side of his face is swollen and purplish, reminding her of a turnip. Blood drips down from his temple as he says through gritted teeth, “Little bitch, why’d you fuckin’ hit me?”

“You grabbed at me, got rough. I was defending myself.”

“Bullshit!” he rages, thick white spittle in the corners of his mouth. “You’re stealing from Dad!”

Mitch lunges toward her, head jabbing like a venomous snake. Anne scoots backward. Staggers, off balance. The back of her head bumps the cabinet door.

Following her, Mitch gets to his feet, awkward, zombie-like, limbs rigor mortis stiff, and comes at her. “You little bitch. Stealing from your own kin, leaving me for dead.”