Luneshale Pass colina

juárez is the brother’s mouthpiece. soto’s the brawn. 

he’s something else sometimes, too. the dispatcher, the gardener. he’s pulled wolves — inconvenient ends tangling the their work — the way he’s pulled weeds ruthlessly from the coca. leave them to live, and their roots spread rot to the fruit. 

he gets the sense she’s studying him as much as he’s studying her. make your move, machismo; tell me who you are. 

her words carry a direct tone to them, but they sound informal. soto never bothered to learn the tongue. it’s ugly and cumbersome, and he refuses to stoop to their level of nonfunction to communicate. 

there’s no rhythm to it. 

vamos. he suggests, tilting his nose towards the path leto only just began to walk upon. he wished to see what she’s up to today.