Person. You knew it was coming
the pharmacist selling Valium and morphine
who got shot in the forehead.
The father of one of my best friends from middle school.
Space. Outside his house far from the drug store
when he opened the main door to see who was calling.
Should I’ve mentioned my friend’s name?
—No, I feel embarrassed.
—If he finds out about this gossiping, I am screwed.
Maybe, his father was being extortionate by the druggy mob.
The plot thickens.

Person. The human rights activist,
that brave woman who wrote the poem “our blood”
who I met at El Recreo Bar one afternoon.
I did not know who she was, until one day she was found dead.
The authorities?
The teenagers?
The plot thickens.


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