The person in question was near the back door, blocking my way. He had come in through the gate, perhaps following the trail of the jeep’s tracks.
He was a tall man, and it was clear he was well built, with very black hair, and although he wore it short, he had it slicked back with gel. His face was dark, Latino, with sharp features, and he had the shadow of a freshly shaved beard on his cheeks. He wore dark glasses, with a design that reminded me very much of police sunglasses, and a long coat almost down to his ankles, a kind of dark gray overcoat. He looked like a mobster, if I’m being honest. In short, this guy was there, and the first thing I felt like doing was screaming; suddenly that need was stronger than the desire to run away for fear that he might be someone dangerous. With so
