the broken-down hotel bed, anesthetized by copious quantities of Sands’s cheap whiskey and beer.
He dreamed he was falling, until his face smashed against the floor. The sharp pain woke him just in time to feel a boot crash into his ribs. He grunted with the kick and doubled up instinctively. A second kick to the gut drove him to reach out to snag the other foot planted near his face. A sharp blow to his cheek by a heavy fist stopped him short, followed by two other hands pressing his shoulders against the floor and a cloth shoved onto his face until the sharp, sweet acetone smell in his sinuses brought on the dark.
75
Jack forced his eyes open.
His face was smashed against the filthy hotel carpet, head throbbing, ribs stabbing him with every breath. His mind was fogged with whatever had knocked him out.
He climbed to his unsteady feet and sat on the creaky bed. Harsh sunlight kept him blinking, but he could see that his room had been trashed.
What time is it?
He reached for his watch on the near nightstand. It wasn’t there. Neither was his phone—he checked his pockets. Shit.
He stood and scanned the room for his backpack. He didn’t see it.
He flung the closet doors open. Only old wire hangers and someone’s abandoned shirt.
He dropped down on his knees and checked under the bed. Nothing.
He ran to the bathroom. Not there, either.
Gone.
Damn! Everything was in it.
He glanced down at his stocking feet.
The bastards even stole my hiking boots.
He felt for his wallet.
Gone.
Panicked, he clutched at his throat for Cory’s ashes.
Gone!
Rage and nausea flooded him. He grunted through clenched teeth.
Motherfuckers!
The rage turned inward.
Sucker-punched him in the gut.
He had screwed it all up.
Again.
* * *
—
Jack dashed over to the cigarette-burned nightstand on the far side of the bed. An ancient clock with flip numbers read 11:35 a.m. The bus back to Anta would be arriving at any minute.
But what caught his eye was his passport and return bus ticket lying next to the clock.
Message received.
Yankee, go home.
A crumpled ball lay next to the passport. Jack knew what it was before he even opened it. He tried to smooth out the picture of Cory’s dad standing on the top of La Hermana Alta, but it was ruined.
He shoved the wrinkled Polaroid into his pants pocket and stumbled toward the tiny bathroom with its filthy tiles and rusted sink to splash water on his aching face. A clouded, cracked mirror revealed a black eye above a swollen cheek and a fat, split lip, which explained the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.
Jack buried his face in his cupped hands and let the cold water cleanse his skin and clear his mind. Then cupped his hands again and drank until he slaked his searing thirst. He dried his face with a paper-thin towel and smoothed out his matted hair. His bladder ached. He pissed and washed his hands, then rinsed out his mouth with tap water, since his toothbrush had been stolen along with everything else.
His stocking feet were wet from the sink water splashed on the floor. How in the hell was he supposed to get around without any shoes, let alone any money?
He snatched his passport and bus ticket from the nightstand and pulled open the front door. He glanced up and down the hallway—a half-dozen rooms on either side, and a door at the far end. Probably a maid’s closet.
Jack darted as quietly as he could on the stained hallway carpet and flung the door open. It was a closet, for sure. Stacked with towels, tiny wrapped soaps, and 200-grit toilet paper. But there was also a broom, a bucket, a mop, rags, and an old-fashioned push sweeper. He kept rifling around, hoping beyond hope.
There.
A pair of old, battered brown wingtips. He blew the dust off them and raced back to his room, where he fell on the bed and pulled the shoes on over his wet socks. They pinched his feet, but beggars can’t be choosers, he reminded himself. He loosened the laces as far as he could and tied them. That would have to do.
That’s when he realized they had even stolen his jacket.
The numbers on the old digital clock flopped over with a mechanical click.
Time to go.
* * *
—
Jack came down the one flight of stairs and into the empty bar. Sands wasn’t there.
Of course not.
Damn snitch. Worthless drunk.
Sore as hell from the beating and queasy from the booze, Jack stepped out into the light.