I listen closely to determine whether Tate is still asleep above me, and upon further investigation, silence leads me to believe he has disembarked from the rickety bed. After a moment’s hesitation, I finally rise from the warm burrow that is my cot and change into another disintegrating outfit for today’s exploits. Settling on a faded navy t-shirt and washed-out jeans, I hastily zip into my coffee-colored hunting jacket and head downstairs to assess the situation in the kitchen. Reaching the tiny room, I am surprised to see no one inside. I swore I heard voices curling up the crackling walls like smoke as I was getting changed. My growling stomach entices me to snatch a meager breakfast: a bulbous and misshapen pink grapefruit. As I scrape the flesh from its tender shell, acidic juices bite into my tongue and set my palate ablaze. There is a slightly fermented finish to the fruit, the result of too many days left to ripen in the grasp of an oppressive sun. Turning to pitch the remnants of the rind through the window to compost in the overgrown garden, a figure seeps into my peripheral vision.
