[The look that Nate wears is the sort of expression that would earn him a gentle prodding from his wife, a where are you? and a concerned expression that he brushes off in spite of her insistence toward addressing it. They'd argued - could he really call it an argument? deferment, or avoidance, maybe - the night before Sam showed up in his office, very much alive.
Sam, who begged him to drop everything to chase one last job, one last time. Nate was never going to say no to his older brother.]
Few years?
[He doesn't remember the exact number. They bounced between borders with such frequency that they became unrecognizable, non-existent, a vast stretch of territory where two kids with ambition and sheer force of will could carve out their own space and explore at their leisure. The world was theirs, and they'd fucking earned it.
What Nate recalls best about those early years isn't faces or names, but the smell of new places and the freedom and anonymity afforded with them. The pungent kick of ajiaco in the morning and the taste of mamoncillo sucked right out of its rind after being plucked from the tree. Sunsets watched from the rooftops, saltwater air. Hard times were a given but they never lasted long.]
Sorta...grew up there.
[Nate informs him, using the most generous and broad application of the statement.]
Santa Marta, Baranquilla, Cartagena, [he offers a small laundry list of coastal names, all spoken with a familiarity that suggests English is not his only language.] Central America too, but there's something nice about the old city streets.
no subject
Sam, who begged him to drop everything to chase one last job, one last time. Nate was never going to say no to his older brother.]
Few years?
[He doesn't remember the exact number. They bounced between borders with such frequency that they became unrecognizable, non-existent, a vast stretch of territory where two kids with ambition and sheer force of will could carve out their own space and explore at their leisure. The world was theirs, and they'd fucking earned it.
What Nate recalls best about those early years isn't faces or names, but the smell of new places and the freedom and anonymity afforded with them. The pungent kick of ajiaco in the morning and the taste of mamoncillo sucked right out of its rind after being plucked from the tree. Sunsets watched from the rooftops, saltwater air. Hard times were a given but they never lasted long.]
Sorta...grew up there.
[Nate informs him, using the most generous and broad application of the statement.]
Santa Marta, Baranquilla, Cartagena, [he offers a small laundry list of coastal names, all spoken with a familiarity that suggests English is not his only language.] Central America too, but there's something nice about the old city streets.