Luneshale Pass lluvia

Soto is suddenly back.

The hound snorts out a puff of brown air, shaking cheeks and grubbing his crooked nose with even more dirt. He stared down the man. A falcon had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that pushers hid behind their eyes.
Fact is, Soto was distracted.
He clicked his tongue.

“Nada,” another grunt, “follando a su mujer. Mismo que tu.”