Things happen.

You stop drinking. You hide. You are severed from your life, huddled on a beach in Mexico, trying to pretend it’s OK being a fugitive, cool being on the lam and living on a beach. The mysterious Americano. But it’s not OK. It’s not cool. And then you meet someone, someone who knows who you are. Someone who wants the money. Threats are exchanged. He threatens you, you threaten him, he threatens your parents. He dies. You run. Back home, to your parents, back to protect them. Bad call.

Things happen.

You lose the money. Lose it like an idiot. Lose over 4 million dollars. Lose the only thing that can save your parents’ lives. You make moves. You play both ends against the middle, you make it up as you go along. You fail. Guns. Vicious dogs. Dead friends. Carnage, bloody and awful. You decide to die.

Something happens.

A man saves you. A man saves your life and offers you a new one. The money was his and you have lost it, but he has a use for you. He sees your talents. He sees the things you have done. He knows that you are better at violence than a human being has a right to be at anything. He has uses for a man like you.

Things happen.

But you don’t want to think about them.

And that is how you lose your life. Because this is not your life. It is the life that has been allowed you. You live it, but it is not your life.

And then things start to happen again.

MY HANDS SHAKE.

They shake so bad I have to stab at the release button on the glove compartment three times before I hit it and the little door drops open. They shake so bad they turn the bottle of pills into a maraca. I fumble with it until Branko climbs into the car, takes the bottle from my hands, twists the cap off and looks at the pills inside.