Tom’s throat is parched; his lips are cracked and bleeding. Pushing open the saloon-style swinging doors, he enters the small cantina.
Tom has been walking for over a day, following a broken road winding through the blistering hot desert. When the building first appeared in the distance, he thought it might be a hallucination.

Jose watches the disheveled young man enter. Tom fumbles in his pockets, but he has no money.
Maybe he’s a drug mule in a transaction gone bad, or he’s been kidnapped and let loose in the desert to die. Regardless, Jose is a Catholic man, and his cantina guards over lost souls.

Jose pours a glass of water, and begins to prepare food for Tom. The pantry is almost empty, he only has a few tortillas left, some pork, and salsa.

“Oh, thank you so much.”
Jose nods; he understands, but does not know more than a few phrases in English.
“God, I could eat a small horse… This is delicious. What do you call this?”
Jose only makes out small snippets of speech.
“Eh? Ees burrito, no?”