Place was a shithole. Darker inside than out. Night still fell, and the folks who’d been boozing for hours looked like zombies.

The ceiling was so tall, it dwarfed us. But I tried to keep my fear under wraps. A song I’d never heard was playing. The walls, once white, were now a cruddy gray, and the light, smothered in cigarette smoke, was dim. The smoke surprised me. I didn’t remember it from my dream.

Out of all of us, Walter was the only one walking tall. We split into groups of two or three. Miseria headed toward a section with tables and I stood next to her. I couldn’t turn my back to anyone. I peered around for a familiar face, but all I saw was a bunch of zombies. Now and then, the others glanced back at me.

Miseria’s face was fixed in a smile, proof that everything was all right. But it was different from the smile she wore before. She was searching too. Like me, like everybody else. I was waiting for the first sign of what the earth had shown me. From that moment on, everything would come crashing down on us, unstoppable till the blade.

On the tables, between the glasses and bottles, were cards: colors, diamonds, hearts. The only women in that joint were Miseria, me, and the other girls who’d followed us. The rest of them, all men, didn’t take their eyes off us.

We walked up to a table. The other players moved to make room. I didn’t understand what they were playing, but the scent that wafted up from the table and the men’s bodies and from the glasses and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts reminded me of the smell that had clung to my old man’s clothes, hair, and skin. Some guy passed me a heavy glass. Before the glass, I felt the touch of his hot hand. I took a sip. Though I didn’t recognize the flavor, I liked it and took another, longer swig, then handed it back.

I saw my brother walk toward a long bar lining one end of the warehouse, past the tables. Two of our people followed. He walked with a confidence that caught my attention. He leaned on the bar, ordered something, took the bottle of beer handed him and paid. Then he turned around and drank straight from the bottle. He never drank straight from the bottle when we went out. It bothered me. No one in there drank like that. He took a swig from the bottle again. Even the folks at the tables started glaring.

I walked up to him and said:

“Finish it, Walter.”

Instead, as if not hearing me, he passed the bottle to the kid next to him, who drank from it without wiping first. They roared and started making a racket.

Everybody watched my brother and the two guys as they laughed and passed the beers from hand to hand. Until at some point Walter knocked one back, choked, and started sputtering. He tried to carry on drinking, but the coughing got in the way. Foam spilled from the bottle to the floor. Seeing this, my brother, still coughing, dropped the bottle and let it smash on the ground. Doubled over, he started puking.

Behind me, a prickly voice dripping with disdain. The same voice I’d heard the evening of the stained boots. The voice of Ale Skin.

“Look at what these barrio scum motherfuckers are doing.”