I feel a twinge of guilt. They were sweet kids that only wanted to help their strange friend. Dirty, poor children that were only going to keep being victimized by life. And I left them there.
Hell, what was I supposed to do? Adopt them and take them on the run with me?
Focus, David. Maybe you can do something for them later. You have to get to later, first.
Wow. All the crazy shit I've done in the last twenty-four hours and that's what I feel the most guilty about?
There's a deserted RV park up ahead.
I assume it's deserted because it's missing the "V" and there are no actual RVs parked there.
I pull into the lot because it's got a line of trees at the back that look like a great place to hide a Humvee you stole from the Mexican army.
After making sure I can't be seen from the road, I do a search for anything that might be useful.
Inside the center console I find a pistol. No thanks. I also find a wallet belonging to a Sergio Flores. The grim-faced man on the driver's license vaguely resembles one of the soldiers I unleashed the whoopee cushion of doom upon.
I also recognize several US presidents and a few people from Mexican history printed on the bills. I shove them and the credit cards into my pocket — promising that I'll pay him back later.
Unlike the jerk who threw the rock at me in Rio, Senor Flores was just doing his job. I think.
I take the keys and lock up my stolen Humvee in the event I need to come back to it. Hopefully, I'll get ahold of Capricorn and he can pull me out of this mess.
Not sure if there is a center of town, I walk away from the deserted part and head towards the highest concentration of buildings that look like they haven't had a coat of paint since the Zimmerman Telegram.
I pass a defunct gas station and a few machine shops, then come to a street with more traffic. There's a truck stop with a Subway sandwich shop next door.
"Morning," says the friendly girl behind the counter with a slight Texas drawl. Red hair and freckles, she's as All-American as you can get — meaning her ancestors are 100 % from somewhere else.
Don't get me wrong; I loved my eight-hour stay in Brazil, without a doubt. And the six seconds I spent skidding across the Mexican desert was a memory I'll cherish for the rest of my life, but to hear someone in English greet me— even the Texas-grilled version of it, is something I can't describe.
Sure, my flight crew friends spoke my native tongue, but I was pretending around them and afraid to say the wrong thing.
Here, I'm just a guy walking into a convenience store about to get a cup of coffee.
"How you doing?" I say with a smile. "You know where I can get wifi?"
"Smile," she replies.
"Pardon me?" I say, grinning, but confused.
"That's the password for here. It'll be the only wireless network."
Smile. How adorable. "Thanks." I fumble with my stolen phone, getting it online while I pour myself a cup of coffee.
I pay for it with my stolen cash then have a seat on a bench outside.
There's still nothing from CapricornZero on Twitter.
Damn. I need an alternate plan. I was hoping he could get me out of this, but if something happened… I'm screwed.
I spend the next half hour sipping my coffee and checking the internet. When the battery on the phone goes, I buy a charge pack in the station.
"You still here?" asks the girl.
"Yeah. Waiting to hear from a friend."
She looks past me and waves. On the security monitor over her head I see two sheriff's deputies getting out of their car.
41
Sandlot
I set a pack of gum next to the charger and pay, trying to act like Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon as I watch the deputies enter the station.
"Thank you," I say as she slides my change across the counter.
Keep cool, David. The cops walk past me and straight to the coffee machine.
"How you doing, Renee?" says one of them as he takes two cups from the holder.
"Same old same old, Frank."
I head towards the door with a smile on my face, because I'm totally ONE HUNDRED PERCENT CHILL.
"You hear about that plane crash on the border?" Renee asks the deputies as I step through the door.
It takes all my will power not to lose control of my limbs and go face first into the glass. I just keep moving, like a carefree man who is oblivious to things like planes crashing in the desert.
Sure, I'd love to stay and hear what the cops have to say, but the longer I stick around, the more likely I am to get asked inconvenient questions.
I veer left and pause for a moment, catching my breath. There's the very real possibility I will get picked up at any moment. I'm on foot and an all-points bulletin is about to be sent everywhere.
If I'm arrested, I need some kind of leverage — especially if I can't trust anyone. I unwrap a piece of gum and start furiously chewing, then stop at a row of newspaper machines on the side of the store and drop a couple quarters into the Texas Journal.
My stomach does somersaults as I stick the gum to the black square then squish it to the inside corner of the newspaper machine. The cops will be leaving the market at any moment.
While I don't think they're on to me yet, I can't wait around for that to happen. I have to keep moving.
I can tell Capricorn where to find his damn square and be done with it.
I let the door close, then stop it before it slams shut entirely. It would make sense if I had a newspaper. It'll give me something to do when I'm trying not to act like I'm intentionally loitering.
With the paper tucked under my arm, I head down the main street, where I spot a few other people going about their business. Walking down here seems less conspicuous than overtly avoiding populated areas.
If I'm walking down a desolate road in an empty part of town, that will just increase my chances of getting stopped.
Eyes on the ground, I keep heading towards the newer buildings. The sun is already rising in the east and the streets are more crowded with people as they go about their business.
I pass a Post Office and a row of cafés and coffee shops. It's tempting to step inside one and try to just have a normal moment, but I don't want to invite any more awkward questions.
I hear the crack of a baseball bat and the cheers of a crowd a few blocks away. It sounds like there's a baseball game going on. Maybe I should hang out there until I know what to do?
The field is in a small community park where the grass is mostly brown and half the lot is dry earth. A few dozen people are spread out across three bleachers as they root for two teams of middle school-aged kids.
I take a seat at the furthest bleacher, near a few older couples and some loners like myself.
This is probably the only thing that's going on at this time of day out here.
An electronic scoreboard shows the home team, the Rattlers, are up two runs against the visitors, the Mustangs. Let's hear it for the predictability of Texan sports team names.
A young girl, maybe twelve, but small for her age, goes up to bat for the Mustangs. She's got a ponytail with purple ribbons tied in knots. I notice her shoelaces also match.
There's a determined look on her face as she gets ready to swing at the ball.
The pitcher is a serious-faced boy who looks like he has a glandular disorder. He winds up and sends the ball so fast over home plate the sound of it hitting the catcher's mitt makes us all jump back a little.
I guess out here there aren't enough kids to divide the league into humans and Neanderthals.
The girl, someone shouts the name Veronica, isn't fazed. She takes the strike and waits for the next pitch.
Captain Caveman unleashes a leather meteor that's in the batter's box faster than a blink.