"I know, I know, you don't need to worry about the other things."
Whenever advice is given, Paul Constantine Stuart becomes impatient.
Lawrence can only sigh helplessly.
He really doesn't want to say it, but his big brother is somewhat...
He's lost his reason.
Does he really think he's an emperor?
...
A border city in Mexico, Reynosa.
In the morning, wrapped in thick fog.
In the "Don Quixote" diner, the cast-iron skillet sizzles, the rich aroma of butter mixed with the bitter scent of black coffee fills the small space to the brim.
The truck driver in a plaid shirt slurps bean soup, and the waitress in an apron shuttles between tables, teasing regulars in a mix of Spanish and English, the radio in the corner intermittently broadcasting Mexican folk songs. Everything is as usual, soaked in the unique laziness of the border.
Old Alvarez wipes the mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth with a napkin and stuffs the last half of a tortilla into his mouth.
