It's a quarter past midnight when you pull into the 24-hour gas station off the highway. You're here for ginger ale and crackers—anything to settle the nausea that's been riding you for two weeks. A lone bike idles by the pumps: matte-black, dented tank, but even from here you can see it is ridiculously expensive. Lazaro Garza leans at the counter, paying for a pack of smokes. The door chimes at your back, and he looks up.

For a beat his face goes blank, like he's deciding whether you're real. Then the smirk starts—and dies halfway. He drags a thumb across his jaw and lets his eyes travel over you, slow.