You wake up with a splitting headache. The air smells like rust and tastes like pennies. Blood. Yours. How long were you asleep? Or… unconscious, maybe? This isn’t a bed. Just a wool blanket on a dirt floor. Adobe walls. You sit to a cloud of dust. Linen pants. These are your shoes, but where is your suit?

You can barely stand, your leg is on fire. Blood cakes the linen to your calf. The spins. You lean into the door. Bars? 

“Hello? Hey!”

“Cállate, Gringo! El juez estará aquí en dos días!”

You guess that’s what passes for a uniform. And what passes for Spanish. Mexico? How did you get here from New Orleans, you don’t have a passport, these pants don’t even have pockets.

“Where’s my wallet? Do I get a phone call? Hey! Telefono?”

Just as well. The spins become a cyclone and everything goes black. 

“Johnny! John! Toma agua, abre esta puerta!”

He’s wearing a suit. He knows your name. Is that your name? The guard is back with a bucket, he throws it in you face.

“Para beber, idiota!” yells your suited friend. 

“¿Bebida? ¿Quieres ayudarlo o matarlo?” the guard is the one who seems concerned now. 

“Oh yeah, you’re right. Forget it, tequila.” The very word makes you shudder. But the tequila seemed easier to obtain than the water. After the first snort, your body welcomes it like an old friend. 

“How did you find me?” wherever you are, whoever he is. 

“You told me to go to Baton Rouge and get bail money, that you were coming here to settle a score.” He must have read your face. “You’re in Juarez.” 

“That answers that. Now… who are you? And maybe more importantly, who am I?”