ONE WEEK LATER—A SMALL TOWN NEAR TIJUANA, MEXICO
The trail’s going cold.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, as I head into some random shitty diner to get some food.
I’m starving. I’m so obsessed with finding Esme that everything comes second. Everything else feels like a fucking afterthought.
Food. Sleep. Shelter.
I don’t give a damn about any of it.
I just want what I’m hunting for.
My wife. My child. My future.
But I’ve been hunting for Esme for a week now, and my frustration keeps growing relentlessly.
I slump down at the breakfast counter. A middle-aged waitress materializes in front of me.
“Can I get you something, señor?”
“Food.”
“Uh… anything in particular?” she asks sarcastically. “Menu’s right there. You do know how a restaurant works, sí?”
I fix her with a cold glare. “I don’t give a shit. Whatever’s good. And coffee. Strong.”
Then I plop my head down against the back of my hands.
Just then, an older man with grey whiskers takes the stool beside me.
“Hey, Francesca,” he greets the waitress.
“The usual?” she asks him.
“Yes, ma’am. Heart attack on a plate. No better way to start the day, am I right?”
He’s got a whimsical Southern drawl that’s way out of place down here outside of Tijuana, Mexico.
I hear her chuckle, but I’m rolling my eyes. Fuck, he’s the chatty type.
I wouldn’t have stopped here if I had the choice. But I haven’t slept in almost three days and I was starting to hallucinate on the drive from the next town over. I had to pull over somewhere or crash.
Right now, I think I’d choose crashing over a conversation with the jovial gent on the stool to my right.
“You doing all right there, son?” he asks. The man goes so far as to pat me on the back reassuringly. “Not lookin’ so hot, if you’ll permit me to say so.”
I just grunt.
“You a local or you passing through?” he asks. “’Course, that’s a bit of a loaded question, ‘cause this here is a small town and I myself am a local, but you are unfamiliar to me. So I’m guessing you’re just passing through.”
I peel myself upright with a weary sigh. Francesca sets a plate of bacon, tortillas, and scrambled eggs in front of me, then slides a full mug of extremely black coffee along with it.
I take a sip of the coffee first. Fuck, that’s good. The caffeine hits my system and brings me back to life, at least a little bit.
I realize I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Colonel Sanders here isn’t an irritant.
He’s a potential source of information.