Luneshale Pass lluvia

in affairs of discipline, soto could be measured -- but as he steps back from the hound, he ponders the virtue of jefe's touch.

his foul mood evaporates. as far as he's concerned, the matter's cleared: he's not fucking the tripod, and that's that. he has no idea the dog's onto him in a different way.

see these? pull them -- soto instructs of the jewelweed that's begun to crowd up their small patch of coca. if left unaddressed, their roots will blot out the shallower root-system of the coca, ruining their crop. he watches the dog long enough to confirm his orders are being followed before he goes to the next row, still rippling with undirected energy.