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Prologue

“Who is she? She’s ugly” The boy gripped the sill of the , looking into the roo on the bench with headphones on, writing in a composition journal

He could tell she wasn’t doing whatever work she was really supposed to be doing She wasthe process He wondered if she riting a story or a poem

“She is not,” hisdown in the chair behind her They had just arrived at the private gun range owned by one of the faazine on her lap, her dark brown hair pinned up She sighed “She’s a very lovely girl,” his mother continued in Spanish

“She’s not that pretty,” he argued

“So why are you staring at her?” his azine

The boy thought on the question He didn’t knohy he was staring He supposed he couldn’t help hiht away and looked at his mother “She’s probably full of herself,” he mumbled

Hishis banter

He turned halfway and watched the girl carefully for a few ure out how she just sat there in one spot and wrote He knew she was younger than hi older always had its perks

“When is Papa going to be done?” he asked

“Soon, hijo,” his mom murmured

He released a heavy breath “I’o in and help him?”

The sound of gunshots ricocheted off the walls and his h the squareShe could see her husband froed with a tan fedora and a Brazilian cigar clamped between his teeth

He was speaking to another man that was much taller Unlike her husband, this led jaw His hair was turning gray at the temples, his face serious as he adjusted the ear un in the air to aim

The ht through the poster’s chest

The wohed as she watched her husband do the same

“No You don’t need to go in there right now,” she answered in her native tongue