Behind La Tienda exists a lot where there once was a garage. Now fenced by unkempt chain link, the lot serves as a drive-through pickup point for housing contractors looking for day laborers. A white extended-cab approaches. The truck wears splashes of cement and random dents and bangs. The driver slows to a stop; he points at two guerros.
Coasting down the two lane highway, Karl and Bryan discuss the job ahead. Bryan spits into a 20oz. bottle of Mountain Dew already a quarter-filled with dark muck. Karl slams the accelerator to pass a dawdling minivan; he posts his right arm at the top of the steering wheel and slouches to the left as if he’s going to exit at any moment. Constantly eyeing the mirrors yet never noticing his reflection, Karl mutters about Canadian snowbirds. Bryan looks straight at the road.
After a few turns, they arrive at a site deep in the forest, an unincorporated part of the county. A narrow stretch of acreage extends from an aluminum hangar. As they draw nearer the scent of hot tar surfaces, pinching the nose. With the engine cut, the birds and crickets cause the most noise for miles out.