The stranger with a black, handlebar moustache is somebody who someone might describe as
an outlaw with a gun. The boy curls his body into the cool adobe doorway, looks at his father.
What do we do? the boy asks. Shhh, says the mother, bringing the boy to her, surrounding
him with her arms. The father looks soft, round in the middle, eyes wide. The boy feels his
father’s weakness, sits down at the table as if eating lunch is all he needs to do to protect
them. His mother serves the man with the gun, who is, the boy believes, hungry like he is. A
tall hat is sitting on top of this stranger who enters their lives easy as a lizard, the sound of his
footsteps still ringing through the house. Nothing is spoken. Nothing explained. He helps
himself to their soup. The boy’s father stares at the stranger, soup dribbles down his chin.
Sitting across from each other the two men are slurping, burping, licking their lips as if
they’re long-lost brothers. The stranger can’t stop smiling at his good fortune. This unarmed
family. This wonderful soup. The man with a price on his head. The boy’s mother, so
beautiful when she looks at her husband for the last time, it burns.