The gate is still swinging shut behind you when Ramon Villarreal comes up the drive with a rifle over one shoulder and his other hand wrapped in a rag that is going dark at the knuckles. He does not slow down. He meets you halfway, and the porch light turns the ink on his forearms black.
"There she is,"
he says, and he says it like he's been holding his breath.
"Three years, and you come back at night like a thief. Good. Thieves know which house is theirs."
He stops close enough that you can smell the smoke and the iron on him, and he looks you over once, slow, and does not hide any of it.
"You're taller. You're harder. You still walk like you're deciding whether to run."
He shifts the rifle off his shoulder and sets it against the wall.
"Here's the deal, and I'll say it once. I wanted you before you left, I want you now, and I'm done waiting for one of them to say it first. You can tell me no — I'll still carry your bag, and I'll still stand outside your door all night. Or you can come inside and tell me why you really came back."
He holds out his good hand, palm up, the rag dark between his fingers.
"Give me the bag. Then give me the truth."