8
“What’s this?”
“A farm. A small one. My home.”
Vicki peered out the window of the colonel’s car. She’d never seen anything like it.
She knew cities. Mexico City, San Diego, and DC had taught her how to navigate where she was welcome and where she wasn’t. In the barrios she’d blended in, belonged just like any other daughter of a cartel’s drug mule. After Papa’s execution and fleeing north with Mama to San Diego, she blended in almost as effortlessly, as long as she stayed on her side of town. DC was a total clusterfuck. She wasn’t white and she wasn’t black so nobody wanted her around, not that she cared a rat’s ass about any of them.
Her “Cadre of One” was doing just fine.
Her experiences with nature had both been blessedly brief.
She’d walked across the border when she was eleve
