Face smeared with grease and mouth full, Tom turns to see the saloon doors swing open. A shadow of a man enters the establishment. He fills the place. He is no more than a wisp. There is nothing to his visage, and within one can read the whole of human history.

He is the whisper that followed Tom through the streets of Alamagordo, over the border, through an unforgiving desert, and into this dusty refuge. Tom knows the only reason he has not wet himself is that his bladder is empty.

Jose chides in Spanish, “You are too late. He is within.”

The figure is still. He throws a fit of rage that shudders the rickety walls. Tom’s eyes dart back and forth between the bartender and the person in the doorway who isn’t there at all.

“Peace, peace,” Jose offers before chuckling, “Oh yes, you hate that word, don’t you?”

Tom swallows hard, partially out of fear and partially due to the half chewed piece of pork.

Sternly, Jose intones towards the door, “You should go. He stays,” and spits in conclusion.