He was thirsty, and hungry, and tired. His shirt had stains and his slacks were ruined. His feet were bleeding inside his Ferragamo loafers, he just knew it. Luckily for him, Americans on vacation were a trustworthy lot. They left all sorts of clothing and supplies out in the open while camping. He didn’t understand why successful people with luxury vehicles would choose to sleep on dirt or torture themselves physically in their free time, but their masochism wasn’t his problem. California culture was ineffable. He’d accepted that and moved on long ago. His main concern was getting out of this wilderness without detection. And hopefully without having to kill anyone else. Shoving the items he’d scalped into a stolen backpack, he headed toward the public restrooms to change. Near the men’s entrance, he noticed a door for a utility closet. Unlocked, of course. Because tree huggers didn’t steal toilet paper.
