The Sunday Before

The Sunday Before
written by Eduardo Hernandez

Chapter 1

The last string of emails had drained Pedro’s wrists until each keystroke felt like tapping bone against iron. Overhead, fluorescents fizzed and popped, bathing the cubicle farm in a sterile glow that made every beige partition look jaundiced. The air tasted of stale hazelnut-roast and printer toner; somewhere a floor fan coughed, wheezing like an old dog. Pedro glanced at his watch—5:03 p.m.—the exact minute Cassandra used to text him home soon? before she’d vanished into someone else’s loft. Five years on, the echo still pricked.
He reached for the snow globe on his desk—a chipped Brooklyn Bridge suspended in plastic blizzard—and shook it once, just enough to watch the flakes swirl before settling, silent and inevitable. Oak Grove felt the same: beautiful only when shaken, dull once the motion died.
“Earth to Pedro.”
Jenna’s auburn hair bobbed over the cubicle wall, catching the amber glow of her desk lamp so her freckles looked like tiny constellations blinking into night. Her voice was light, lilting, a saxophone riff sliding between spreadsheets.
“You pulling an all-nighter or just hoping the keys sprout roots?” she asked.
Pedro stacked a rainbow of Post-its, perfectly aligned corners tapping the desk. “Just clearing my plate before Monday,” he said, careful not to let the sentence sag into a sigh.
“C’mon.” She leaned closer, conspiratorial. “There’s a new jazz dive on Walnut—cover’s cheap, and the sax player supposedly wails like Coltrane after three espressos.” Her grin widened. “One drink. Clock out before that watch of yours starts charging rent.”
The janitor’s floor polisher droned down the hall, a dull roar that made the fluorescents flicker—one long blink that set Pedro’s pulse tripping. He thought of the lease listings hidden in his incognito tabs, the ever-climbing Brooklyn rents that mocked his Midwestern paycheck. New York kept getting farther the longer he hesitated.
Jenna shrugged on a scuffed leather jacket; a curl of vanilla-warm suede drifted across the cubicle line. “Suit yourself,” she said, slipping a disposable 35 mm from her tote. She snapped a quick photo—click—and the flash turned his screen into a silver mirror where his own tired eyes stared back.
“Wait.” Pedro stood, surprised by the firmness in his voice. He shut down his monitor, the fan’s dying whir filling the silence. “One drink,” he repeated, tugging at the laces of his high-tops—nervous habit, anchor, ritual.
The elevator at the corridor’s end dinged once, stuttered, then settled. Jenna waggled her brows, and together they stepped into the flickering carriage, unaware that the night outside had started to rain in cold, silver needles.

Chapter 2

The rain had thinned to a mist by the time they reached the club, a squat brick building pulsing with red-purple neon that spelled “Blue Note Alley.” Water beaded on its battered marquee like a string of dim stars. From somewhere behind the cinder-block walls rose the muted growl of a saxophone—long, slow notes that coiled through the night air and wrapped around Pedro’s ribs.

Jenna stepped under the awning, rain glittering on her lashes. She tugged her leather jacket open, fishing out a slim, hand-rolled joint from the inner pocket. The paper was flecked with faint gold fibers—like a secret she’d been saving.

“C’mon,” she said, voice low, conspiratorial. “Music always tastes better with a little smoke.”

Pedro wiped droplets from his bomber’s shoulders. “I don’t know,” he muttered, glancing at the line of patrons clustered near the entrance. “Stuff makes my thoughts sprint. Next thing I know my heart’s doing parkour.”

Jenna grinned, unfazed. “Then we’ll walk it, not sprint it.” She nodded toward a narrow passage beside the building where a lone security light buzzed. “Back here.”

The alley smelled of wet concrete and the metallic bite of dumpster lids. A rivulet of rainwater snaked between slick cobblestones, reflecting the neon like liquid fire. Jenna cupped her hand, struck a cheap lighter, and the flame painted her freckles copper. She inhaled—cheeks hollowing, eyes half-lidded—then rolled the smoke across her tongue before exhaling a faint, bluish ribbon. In that half-light, with rain droplets jeweled in her hair and smoke curling past her lips, she looked both ethereal and daring, like a mural that might wink if you turned away.

She offered the joint. Pedro hesitated, then took it, pinched carefully between thumb and forefinger—as if it might shatter. The first drag was hesitant, shallow, leaving a peppery warmth on his palate. He coughed a small laugh. “Still weird.” He leaned against the brick, letting the sax solo seep through mortar and skin.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than the rain. “You ever think about flipping the board? Dropping everything but a backpack, choosing some nowhere town—or some too-big city—and letting it change you?”

Jenna exhaled toward the sky, smoke mingling with mist. “I mean, sure. Deciding to come out tonight instead of crashing on my couch already rewrote a tiny piece of my timeline.” Her eyes met his, gentle but probing. “But I suspect that’s not the caliber of chaos you’re craving.”

Pedro’s chuckle was a hollow bell. “I’m talking scorched earth, Jen. New name on the mailbox, new sunrise, new coffee shop that doesn’t know my order. Just… start the tape over.” He handed the joint back.

She took it, the tip glowing ember-bright as it met her lips. A strand of auburn hair stuck to her cheek; she brushed it away with the same fingers holding the smoke. Her nails were chipped black, edges rimmed with silver polish—little contradictions that made total sense to Pedro.

“Listen,” she said on an exhale that drifted between them. “I get it. The split dug a crater in you. But if you bolt, you’re taking me, right? Because I am not letting you run off to some postcard life while I’m stuck counting ceiling tiles in Oak Grove.”

The joint crackled; tiny sparks fell and died against the wet stones. Jenna stubbed it under the heel of her boot, crushes the cherry to ash. “Deal?”

Pedro studied her—raindrops quivering on her lashes, smoke ghosts still tangled in her hair. For the first time in months, his pulse steadied. “Deal.”

Inside, the door swung open on a wash of trumpet and laughter. A hostess with half-moon earrings ushered them through velvety darkness to a two-top near the stage. Saxophone wailed, upright bass thrummed, and the club smelled of spilled bourbon, old wood, and promise.

Pedro slipped off his bomber, feeling the weight of damp fabric and something lighter—a notion that change might not require a one-way ticket, just the right person to share the night’s soundtrack.

The club was a cave of indigo and plum—lamps hooded in cobalt glass, stage lights pulsing violet whenever the saxophonist carved a high note. Pedro sank into the velvet chair, shoulders loosening as the drummer rode the cymbal in soft, silvery arcs. Bass notes rumbled through the floorboards; he felt them in his shins. Jenna snapped on the twos and fours, freckles glowing under the blue wash like secret star clusters.

Applause erupted; cocktail shakers rattled behind the bar. A tall server in a midnight-black vest materialized, leaning in so close Pedro caught lilac perfume over bourbon. “First round?” she asked.

Before he could form a polite decline, Jenna had already lifted two fingers. “Old-fashioneds, please—heavy on the orange peel.”

Pedro arched an eyebrow.

“Loosen up,” Jenna laughed, brushing rain-frizzed hair from her face. “It’s barely ten; the night’s still stretching its legs.”

“Fine,” he conceded, rolling his shoulders. “But after this we’re hitting a diner of my choice. Real food. None of these elegant dishes I can’t pronounce. What the heck is a char—char-koo…”

“Charcuterie,” Jenna supplied, dimples flickering.

“Yeah, that. Meat board. Give me pancakes and hash any day.”

The server returned like a well-dressed specter, set the drinks down with a muted clink, and slid a small leather folio onto the table. In one sleek motion Jenna plucked it up, tapped her card, and pocketed the receipt before Pedro could blink.

“Hey—”

“This one’s on me,” she said, grin tilting mischievous. “You’re buying the late-night carbs.”

Pedro lifted his glass; citrus oil gleamed on the surface like a thin sunrise. “So,” he asked, voice nearly swallowed by a trumpet solo, “you seeing anyone lately?”

Jenna swirled her drink. “Was seeing this girl, Stephanie. Smart, art-school vibe. Then”—she snapped once, dry and sharp—“gone. No texts, no socials. Like she slipped between floorboards.”

“People don’t just disappear,” Pedro said, but the words wobbled as the band hit a blue note that felt too close to sorrow. Jenna’s shrug was small, resigned.

They drained the last syrupy sip as the pianist wound down. Applause swelled, lights dimmed to twilight violet, and Pedro felt the air shift—an electricity that promised the night hadn’t shown its hand yet. Jenna tapped his sneaker with the toe of her boot. “Diner time?”

“Diner time.” He stood, jacket slung over one shoulder, following her through a corridor of clapping hands and trumpet echoes, past the paid tab, and out into the rain-washed street where palace lights from passing cars flashed like omen and invitation at once.

The IHOP greeted them with a buttery hush: warm maple drifting from the kitchen, fresh-brewed coffee cutting through the rainy chill outside. Neon from the OPEN sign painted the linoleum a cheery pink, and the overhead bulbs glowed soft gold instead of harsh white. A lone server—white hair in a loose bun, paisley apron tied snug—waved them inside. “Sit wherever your hearts fancy, dears.”

They slid into a booth beneath the hum of a flickering tube light. Vinyl squeaked. Jenna dropped her damp leather jacket on the seat beside her, shook rain from her curls. The old woman appeared with menus and a smile soft as rising batter. “What can I get started for y’all?”

“Two coffees, a couple waters,” Pedro said.

“And hash browns, eggs, pancakes—ketchup for the eggs, please,” Jenna added, flashing a grin Pedro swore could light the whole diner.

“Ketchup and eggs?” he echoed, half-horrified.

“It’s magic. You’ll see.” She winked.

The coffees arrived fast—thick porcelain mugs steaming like miniature chimneys. The server promised the rest “right quick, sugar” and disappeared toward the mostly quiet kitchen. Rain rat-a-tatted harder against the window. Headlights swept the parking lot, then clicked dark. Pedro’s gaze lingered on the sedan that coasted into a stall near the dumpster. Jenna noticed, tilting her head toward the window for a beat before turning back to her sugar packets. “So, Pedro—really serious about skipping town?”

He sipped the coffee; it was strong enough to stand a spoon. “Yeah. I need new air, y’know? Family’s forty miles south, but my brother’s knee-deep in school runs and soccer practice for my ten-year-old niece. They’ll manage without Uncle Pedro hovering. Plus, New York’s comedy scene…” He forced a grin. “Maybe they will appreciate how funny I am.”

Jenna snorted mid-swallow, sent water dribbling down her chin. “You? Stand-up? Pedro, you’re funny, but not mic-in-hand funny.”

“What? I’m hilarious.” He squared his shoulders. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

She groaned into a napkin. “Spare me.”

“C’mon. Ask.”

“Fine.” Exaggerated sigh. “Why?”

“To get—” dramatic pause “—to the other side.”

Jenna clapped once, deadpan. “Stop, my ribs.”

Pedro chuckled, eyes drifting back to the lot. The person in the car hadn’t budged. Rain sluiced off the windshield in slow rivers, obscuring faces.

He leaned in, voice softer. “You’d really come with me?”

Jenna’s fingers combed through rain-damp hair. “Of course. You’re basically my emergency contact these days. Since my sister got locked up, you’re all I’ve got till she’s out—in, what, eight years?” Her laugh was light but frayed at the edges.

Pedro nodded, thumb tracing the mug rim. Outside, the sedan sat silent, its shapes unmoving. From the kitchen came the flip of pancakes and the crackle of hash browns meeting the griddle.

Chapter 3: Pedro’s apartment sat in an older brick complex a few blocks off Main—the kind of low-income building where the stairwell smelled faintly of bleach and someone’s TV leaked through the walls after midnight. The rain had thinned to mist by the time they climbed to the second floor.

“Mind if I crash on your couch?” Jenna asked, tugging her hood back, curls damp at the edges.

Pedro checked his phone. Midnight on the nose. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve got the Nintendo 64 if you want to play some Mario Kart.”

“You’re kidding.” Her grin was instant. “I haven’t played that in ages. What are they on now—like Mario Kart 15?”

“Probably,” he said, shouldering the door open. “But this is the one from the ’90s. From when we were kids.”

He paused with the key still in the lock and glanced over the railing. The same dark sedan from IHOP idled at the curb, a slow ribbon of exhaust pooling in the streetlight. Ignition on. No movement inside that he could see. Paranoid, he told himself, and turned the deadbolt twice for good measure.

Inside was warm and tidy: thrift-store couch, milk-crate shelves stacked with records, a scuffed CRT TV squatting like a gray cube on a low stand. Pedro flicked on a lamp, then crouched at the console. He blew dust from the Mario Kart cartridge, slid it home with a plasticky click, and pressed power. The N64 logo spun up. The room filled with that cheerful menu jingle—pure muscle memory.

Jenna claimed the neon-orange controller before he could reach it. “Yoshi, obviously.”

“Classic never dies.” He took the gray controller. “I’ll be Mario.”

They settled into their spots—Jenna cross-legged, Pedro perched on the edge of the couch like a sprinter in the blocks. First race: Koopa Troopa Beach. She nailed the shortcut like she’d practiced it yesterday; he smacked into a crab and swore under his breath.

“Rusty,” she sang, drifting around a bend.

“You wish,” he shot back, launching a red shell that kissed her bumper and spun her out just shy of the finish. She whooped anyway, laughing, freckles bright under the lamplight.

Between races, Pedro stood to stretch and parted the blinds with two fingers. The sedan was still there, idling. Headlights off. Just the pulsing orange of the dash, faint as a heartbeat. He let the slat fall and forced a smile back onto his face.

“Next up,” Jenna said, thumbing through the course list, “Moo Moo Farm. Prepare to be humiliated.”

“Trash talk, Mario Kart has turned you mean?” he said, smiling.

Two rounds later she was up two-zip and he was muttering about rigged cows. She snapped a photo of his sulk on her disposable camera—click—and he threw a cushion at her. It thunked off her shoulder; she caught it and hugged it to her chest, still grinning.

They played through Kalimari Desert, Toad’s Turnpike, and that maddening ice one he always forgot the name of. The banter was easy, the room warm, the night briefly simple. Every so often, another look at the window. Every time, the same car.

After a tie-breaker on Luigi Raceway that she won by a nose—and an ungodly amount of gloating—Pedro clicked off the console and rubbed his eyes. “All right, champ. My pride can’t take another loss.”

Jenna leaned back, ginger with the movement, a small flicker crossing her face when her lower back protested. He noticed.

“You get the bedroom,” he said, already standing.

She sat up. “You sure? Pedro, this is your place.”

“Yeah,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Besides, you had that back surgery just a year ago. Only the best for your spine.” He pointed toward the short hall. “Fresh sheets. Extra pillow for the knees.”

Her expression softened. “You’re the best, Pedro.” She reached for his hand and, without ceremony, pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles—gratitude, nothing complicated.

He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, you don’t gotta be weird about it.”

“That was barely weird,” she said, rolling her eyes as she stood. She gathered her jacket and phone, then hesitated. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he lied, light. “Go claim the throne before I change my mind.”

He waited until her footsteps faded down the hall and the bedroom door clicked soft. Then he crossed to the window again. The blinds offered a slit of the parking lot. The sedan had not moved. Streetlight turned the mist to silver dust on its hood. No silhouettes. No door opening. Just that low hum.

He let the slat ease back into place, tested the deadbolt again, then checked the chain. The apartment’s sounds returned in layers: the faint hum of the fridge, the ticking of the baseboard heater, a neighbor’s laugh filtering through plaster. He swapped jeans for pajama pants without bothering to hide, pulled on a long-sleeve tee, and left his blue bomber draped over a chair.

On the coffee table, the controllers lay in a neat loop of cords like sleeping snakes. He wound them once, placed them side by side, and turned off the lamp. The TV screen faded to a dim rectangle and then to his own reflection, ghostly in the glass.

From down the hall, Jenna called, “Pedro?”

“Yeah?”

“This mattress is amazing,” she said, sincerity tucked inside the joke.

“Told you,” he answered, and meant it.

Silence settled. Outside, a distant siren wound up and faded. Somewhere, a pipe knocked. Pedro lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling’s hairline cracks, tracing them the way he used to trace highway routes in the atlas as a kid: places to go, lines to follow. He closed his eyes and tried to let the day drain off.

A minute later he sat up, went to the window one last time, and took another look.

Same car. Same idle. Same patient glow.

“Okay,” he murmured to the room, to the quiet, to no one in particular. “Weird.”

He let the blind fall, checked the lock once more, and stretched out again. The couch springs groaned, then held. In the darkness, he listened to the ordinary things—his own breathing, the soft whir of the heater—until they were almost enough to drown out the part of him that was still waiting for something to change.

Chapter 4
Pedro’s bladder made the call at 2:33 a.m. He shuffled from the couch, phone glow scattering soft light across the living-room carpet. At least my head doesn’t hurt, he thought, grateful the old-fashioneds hadn’t gone nuclear. After flushing, he detoured to the kitchen for water. The fridge hummed beneath a collage of crooked magnets—one pinning a snapshot of his brother, sister-in-law, and beaming ten-year-old niece inside a pumpkin patch. Pedro smiled, then glanced toward the blinds.
The sedan.
He peeked. Headlights glared through the rain like two watchful eyes, engine idling in steady breaths of white exhaust. Irritation beat back the last of his drowsiness. Hoodie, slippers, deadbolt—click. He slipped into the night.

The complex courtyard was ink-dark, cicadas chirring in the distance. Pedro hugged the shadows until he reached the big oak by the curb. The sedan sat ten feet away, its dashboard lights casting a faint sea-green glow across the windshield. Anxious heat prickled his neck.
Suddenly the engine cut. Headlights died. The driver’s door creaked open.
Out hopped a kid—ten, maybe eleven—hair neatly parted, crimson tie tucked into a charcoal vest like a tiny banker on Casual Friday. Pedro’s jaw sagged.
What is this pipsqueak doing driving a car?
The boy shut the door with practiced ease, patting the hood affectionately. Pedro’s annoyance morphed into bewildered courage. He stepped from behind the tree.
“Hey, kid! Where are your parents?” he called, voice low but firm.
The boy turned, eyes bright as sparklers beneath the streetlamp. “My parents?” He cocked his head. “You mean my dad? Don’t see him much—‘philosophical differences,’ you could say.” He chuckled, not at all like a child. “He thinks I’m no good.” The words dripped syrupy amusement, not sadness.
Pedro blinked. “O-kay. Name’s…?”
“Damien.” The kid straightened his tie with theatrical pride. He ran a palm over the sedan’s fender. “Took the keys tonight. Figured I’d take this baby wherever I wanted.”
Somewhere a porch light flickered; crickets sawing their nighttime violin kept time. Pedro folded his arms. “Look, Damien, you shouldn’t be driving. And why were you tailing us at IHOP?”
Damien grinned wider, like he’d been handed the punch line to a secret joke. “Stalking? Such an ugly word.” He stepped closer; Pedro caught a faint scent of brimstone—maybe car exhaust, maybe his imagination. “Let’s chat inside my ride, Pedro. You and I have… unfinished business.”
Pedro felt something cold slither through his stomach. “Kid, I don’t know you, and I don’t owe you.”
“Oh, you know me.” Damien’s pupils seemed to swallow the lamp-light. “And it’s time you pay up.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Shall we?”
For a beat Pedro considered sprinting back upstairs—double-locking the door, shaking Jenna awake—but the kid was just standing there, hands in pockets, tie straight as a ruler. Running from a ten-year-old felt ridiculous.
He cleared his throat. “Look, Damien, if you’re in trouble, I can call someone. The cops, Child Protective Services—”
Damien waved him off, a small, almost elegant gesture. “No need for sirens tonight. I only want a conversation. Hop in. I promise I don’t bite.” He leaned against the sedan’s open door, foot tapping the puddled asphalt in a lazy rhythm.
Pedro glanced up at the apartment—second-floor blinds shut, a warm slit of bedroom light where Jenna had left the lamp on low. She’s sleeping; don’t drag her into this. He exhaled, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked at Damien’s expectant grin. It was either talk now or wonder forever what the kid wanted.
“All right,” Pedro said, voice tight. “Five minutes. Then you’re explaining how you got that car and why you were at IHOP.”
Damien clapped once, straightened his red tie with ceremonial flair, and slid into the driver’s seat. Pedro circled to the passenger side, slippers squelching in a shallow puddle. As he settled into the leather, the sedan’s dashboard lights washed his hands in an eerie sea-green glow.
Just a chat, he told himself, closing the door. The faint smell of ozone—or maybe old vinyl—hung in the cabin. Outside, the streetlamp steadied, crickets resumed their steady chorus, and upstairs Jenna slept on, unaware that the night’s game had entered a brand-new level.

Pedro slid into the Cadillac’s passenger seat, the leather soft and improbably warm. Damien drummed the steering wheel with undersized fingers, eyes shining in the dashboard’s sea-green glow.
“You like it?” he asked, pride swelling his voice. “Refurbished it myself—’96 DeVille. She’s my baby.”
Hearing baby from a kid felt off, but Pedro only nodded. The cabin smelled of cinnamon gum and old cigar ash, sweet and acrid at once. A pair of fuzzy dice—bright crimson—dangled from the mirror, ticking the windshield with every idle vibration. Damien shoved an unwrapped stick of Big Red into Pedro’s hand.
“Oak Grove’s tiny,” the boy announced as he popped the car into gear. “We can lap it in twenty minutes. Plenty of time.”
The sedan purred onto the road, fuzzy dice swaying like metronomes. Pedro kept an eye on the rubber blocks strapped to the pedals—makeshift extenders so a ten-year-old could reach.
“Pedro, you sad, poor fool,” Damien sighed, easing past a yellow light. “I just wanted to say that before we get started.”
“Harsh,” Pedro muttered, peeling the gum’s foil. “I didn’t make fun of your… uh… slightly large head.”
Damien’s hands jerked on the wheel. “What? It is not!”
“Hey—you started it,” Pedro shot back. “Time for answers, though. Why tail me all night, you weirdo?”
Damien pushed the DeVille up to forty, then fifty. “Pedro, what if I told you you’ve been drafted into a war?”
Pedro blinked. “Are you high?”
“I’m serious.” Damien’s voice dropped, all the playground sarcasm drained out. “Those ‘local’ disappearances? Not local. Governments everywhere are choking on the secret. By next week, a mass exodus—gone.” He snapped his fingers. The dice swung wildly. “You, poor Pedro, will still be here. And when it happens, you’ll find me.”
Pedro opened his mouth.
“Nu-nope.” Damien twitched a finger—somehow Pedro’s jaw simply… paused, as if an invisible moderator hit mute. Pedro swallowed, half terrified, half mesmerized.
“I’m telling you,” Damien continued, “because you actually owe me. Remember when you downloaded the IHOP Rewards app? Should’ve read the fine print—‘soul hereby transferred to Damien’s Army.’” He tapped his tie, grinning. “Plus, you never answered the door for the Hallelujah ladies, hid behind your couch when they rang. Tsk-tsk.”
The Cadillac roared onto the outer county road, cresting seventy as fields gave way to scrubby hills. Rain-soaked asphalt gleamed under the high beams.
Pedro finally wrested his voice back. “What the hell are you talking about? This is a bad dream. When I wake up, I’m deleting the IHOP app and never smoking anything Jenna hands me again.”
Damien chuckled, feathering the brake. The car slowed to a crawl and pulled onto a dirt track. Headlights spilled over a low hill topped with a weather-worn cross and a gash of freshly turned earth.
“Out,” Damien said.
Pedro’s slippers hit wet grass. “This isn’t my apartment,” he whispered.
The town twinkled below like scattered marbles. Wind hissed through cedar branches. Ahead, the cross bore a brass plate: HERE LIES PEDRO AGUILAR.
His blood iced. A metallic clack spun him around—Damien pointing a revolver as casual as a water pistol.
“When you come back,” the boy said, eyes black-marble calm, “you’ll be different. You’ll help me win this war. Meet me here.”
Pedro’s pulse hammered. “Holy— Kid, don’t!”
“See you soon, Pedro.” Damien’s smile was small, satisfied.
The muzzle flashed. Thunder cracked.

Pedro bolted upright on the couch, heart jackhammering, hoodie soaked in sweat. Mario Kart’s title screen looped silent on the TV—Yoshi frozen mid-wave. The apartment was dark, hushed, safe.
But outside the blinds, a pair of headlights glowed at the curb, idling in the rain.

Chapter 5
Jenna slipped off the borrowed blanket, phone in hand, and caught Pedro mid–deep sleep: sprawled, drooling, blissfully unaware. Haha cuuutttteeee ❤️ she captioned, then pressed shutter.

An unexpected fart puffed from the cushions.

“Less cute,” she mouthed, cheeks puffing to keep laughter silent.

Bare-footed, she padded toward the kitchenette—and paused. A cluster of ants ringed a lone Frosted Flake on the floor, antennae flicking like tiny semaphore flags. They nibbled, retreated, returned in perfect rhythm.

“Well, aren’t you lot efficient,” she whispered, crouching for a closer look.

Opening the nearest cupboard, she spotted the half-filled box of Frosted Flakes. Hidden treasure—thanks for the tip, crew. She poured herself a bowl, oat milk swirling over sugar-coated flakes, then pinched a fresh cereal piece and set it beside the ants’ find.

“Payment for services rendered,” she said, giving a small, mock-solemn nod. The insects swarmed the new offering, and something warm fluttered in her chest—gratitude for tiny guides that didn’t even know her name.

Coffee sputtered in the machine. The kitchen smelled of roast beans and toasted corn. Just as she lifted her spoon, an engine chuffed outside. Jenna tilted a blind slat: a dark Cadillac, boxy and dated, rolled away from the curb without headlights.

She watched until the taillights winked out around the corner. A faint chill crept along her arms. “Weird I could swear that’s the same car from the IHOP”, she thought, but couldn’t muster a reason to chase the thought farther.

Back at the counter, the ants carried glittering crumbs toward a crack in the baseboard, tireless and sure of purpose. Jenna took her first bite—sweet, cold, uncomplicated. She let the crunch fill the silence, eyes lingering on the empty street beyond the blinds, the taste of sugar mixing with a prickle of unease she couldn’t quite name.

Jenna checked her phone: 5:03 a.m. Early, but normal for her body clock. A quick run would clear the cobwebs. She rinsed her bowl, set it upside-down to dry, then tore a sticky note from Pedro’s pad on the fridge.

Thanks for a fun time—see you Monday!
—J

She pinned it to the coffee maker, figured he’d find it when he finally stirred.

Jacket on, keys in pocket, she stepped outside. The air had that first hint of fall—cool, with a faint bite of woodsmoke somewhere down the block. Streetlights cast long amber pools across the pavement; a robin tried out a single, tentative chirp, confused by the hour.

A yellow cab rounded the corner, tires whispering on damp asphalt. It rolled to a stop, the driver leaning across the seat. “2245 on Heur and Pichon?”

“That’s me,” Jenna said, sliding in and pulling the door shut.

As the cab accelerated, she caught her reflection in the window: hair tousled, eyes still bright from too little sleep. Ahead, dawn painted the horizon a thin rose line. She flexed her back—scar tissue tugging but tolerable—and pictured the familiar loop she’d run once she got home. Five miles, maybe six, steady pace.

Behind her, Pedro’s apartment shrank to a square of dim light. The cab turned, and the street fell from view, leaving only the cool hush of early morning and the pale, widening sky.

Chapter 6

Pedro woke to a hard ribbon of sunlight slicing across his face. He rolled off the couch, feet thudding on the floor, and shuffled to the bathroom. The mirror offered up swollen under-eyes, stubble that felt like sandpaper.
“What a weird night,” he muttered. Toothbrush, mint foam, rinse. Nothing about the morning tasted dreamlike, yet the memory of that Cadillac still rattled in his skull.

In the kitchen he found Jenna’s sticky note pinned to the coffeepot:

Thanks for a fun time—see you Monday!
—J

She’d brewed enough for two. How does she have the energy to function at dawn? Pedro poured a mug, inhaled the steam, and kicked into Sunday-mode: laundry tumbling, dishes clinking, fresh sheets snapping onto the bed. Chores usually flushed out idle thoughts, but today Damien’s grin kept resurfacing. Ridiculous imagination, he told himself—yet something deep in his chest felt slightly out of tune, like a guitar string half a step off.

Shower time. Hot water pounded his shoulders; a long exhale fogged the tiles. With eyes closed he drifted backward—sun-bleached memories of the coastal town where he’d grown up: Pedro, Julian, and Mom hustling flea-market odds and ends just to make rent, the crash of waves behind a row of pastel apartment blocks. Dad’s absence had always been a missing puzzle piece they couldn’t find under the couch cushions.

Mom’s explanation came in bitter snatches: “He left to start another life—had to think about himself. Found himself a whore.” The word had sounded like shattered glass in a child’s ears. Pedro sighed now, letting the water beat over his face and wash the memory down the drain.

“Pedro.”
A whisper. Soft as steam but colder.

He froze. “Hello?” Only running water answered.

A low, playful laugh. “Pe-dro…”

He shut off the tap, heartbeat thumping. I’m hearing voices. Fantastic. A shaky chuckle escaped. “I need fresh air.” Towel, jeans, blue bomber, gray beanie, Nike high-tops. Before leaving, he glanced back at the silent apartment—nothing moved, but tension clung to the doorway like cobweb.

Outside, a crisp breeze slapped his cheeks; sunlight warmed the bridge of his nose. “That’s more like it,” he breathed, heading toward town.

Sundays always dredged up church memories. Mom used to march the boys to St. Agnes no matter how loudly cartoons beckoned. Pedro had become an expert at fake stomachaches until one morning he snapped:

“Why can’t reading the Bible be enough, huh?”
Mom’s frustration flared. “Church is the house where we worship—where we ask to be forgiven for our sins.”
“But Julian and I—we’re just kids. Why do we need forgiveness? I wouldn’t do it for Dad after he left you, and I’m not doing it for some guy on a golden throne expecting me to kiss his ass!”

The spanking that followed was epic, legendary—still worth it, he thought now, a rueful grin tugging his lips. Worth every smack.

He walked on, hands in pockets, the town waking around him: distant lawn-mower drone, hiss of sprinklers, the scent of someone’s bacon drifting over a fence. Ordinary Sunday. Ordinary world.

Yet behind the mundane hum, Pedro felt a faint, insistent echo—like a radio left on in another room, tuned to a frequency only he could hear. And somewhere inside that static, a child’s laugh flickered, daring him to call it a dream.

Chapter 7

Casa del Viento was in its Sunday rhythm—sun pouring through big pane windows, light pooling across a glass case crowded with conchas, orejas, empanadas. The Hernandez place always felt half home, half café: business below, family above. Somewhere overhead, small feet thumped—daughter upstairs. Across the street, the church lot loosened into handshakes and hugs, faces bright with that “community with God” glow.

Quick refuel. Café de olla and a concha. That was it.

“Pedro!” Ed called the second the bell over the door chimed.

“Ed, good to see you,” Pedro grinned. “Hey, looks like I beat the rush—church across the street is just getting out.”

Ed laughed—an honest, unpretty snort. “You don’t go to church, Pedro?”

Pedro let out a real chuckle. “Not anymore. Did when I was a kid, Ed. Nothing against the whole thing—I just think if we’re going that way, I might as well believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny.”

“Pedro, that is the funniest thing,” Ed said, still chuckling.

“Well, you’re not over there right now,” Pedro added, smiling. “It’s Sunday—what’s your excuse?”

Ed paused, then tugged a small cross from under his shirt. “Bro, I am Seventh-day Adventist, and it’s Sunday.”

Pedro’s smile thinned, a flicker of tension. “Ed, I didn’t know.”

Ed waved it off with a warm laugh. “But Pedro, it’s never too late to hand your soul over to God. I just get worried for you. We’ve known each other four years. I like to consider you more than a customer—hell, you even came to my daughter’s ninth birthday party dressed in all pink, as were her birthday requirements.”

“Of course, Ed,” Pedro said. “She made perfect sense. It was the rule. I even wore pink nail polish.”

“Oh yeah, she loved you after that.” Ed leaned on the counter. “Well, just like my daughter, there were rules to get in the party, and my little girl’s rule was pink.” His tone dropped a shade. “The Bible says we are in end days, and I want to see you at the party, Pedro. That’s why we go to church.”

Pedro smirked, but it was kind. “Aw shucks, Ed, you don’t have to worry about me like that. I just don’t do church—handing over my ‘soul,’ my eternal devotion… I can’t do that, Ed.”

Silence edged in, soft but heavy.

Pedro heard static. A whisper—laughing. For a heartbeat, he felt unmoored, as if the room had slipped him between seconds.

Ed was still.
The cars were still.
Across the street, the people in the parking lot—half of them—flared into hard white light and vanished. Clothes sagged to asphalt. Keys pinged. A stroller rolled, ownerless, until it kissed a bumper.

An engine screamed.

A sedan in the front row lurched alive with no one behind the wheel, hopped the curb, and shot across Pichon straight at the café.

“Pedro!” Ed yelled.

Pedro dove as the world shattered. The front door blew inward; glass burst in a glittering wave; the bell gave one strangled ring and disappeared under shards. Metal shrieked as the hood punched through the window frame and died halfway over the tile.

“¡Dios mío, Pedro—are you alright?” Ed was already there, hauling him up by the elbow.

“Yeah—I think so,” Pedro huffed, adrenaline spiking, lungs burning. He stared at the wreckage. Month of repairs. Easy.

Ed yanked the passenger door. It swung open on empty seats. “Pedro,” he called, voice flat. “There is no one in here.”

Pedro looked past the ruined window. Across the street, space where people had been still trembled with heat like a mirage. The ones left standing stared skyward, stunned. A pink cardigan lay folded on the ground, no body to claim it.

“What the hell is happening?” Pedro shouted.

Ed’s cross caught the light as he turned. “It’s like the Bible says,” he answered, almost a whisper. “End days.”

(End part 1).