APRIL 31

Today is April 31. That’s what the breeze-torn calendar says, pinned to a tilting wooden post with a hunting knife. A dark red streak cuts through the black ink of the thirty-one. I take a second look.

Juan and I came up from the river. The muddy rot follows us. A few blocks away and it’s still clinging in my nose.

Daylight drops fast. I blink and it’s gone.

I look around. Something’s off.

Time doesn’t move right here. It lingers. Hangs in the air like a dark stormy cloud waiting to break.

Juan tells me to give him an hour. Then he disappears into the crowd without looking back.

The streets are a clusterfuck. Ragtag vendors shout over each other. Grizzled fishermen haul in their last catch. Quick-eyed hustlers hawk whatever crap might turn a coin. Mangy cats dart between splintered shacks and makeshift stalls, sniffing for scraps. Behind battered wooden tables, men with weather-worn faces and deeply scarred hands trade glances as sharp as the knives they grip. Laughter, curses, and muffled arguments drift from darkened doorways.

I lean against a crumbling wall, graffiti layered so thick it looks like its been painted, erased, and painted again a hundred times over. Bullet holes and knife slashes add texture, making sure nothing’s forgotten.

The dog finds me first.

A low rumble in its chest before I even see the damn thing. Looks like something that's survived too long on too little. Hips offkilter. Gait uneven like it had been broken once and never set right. Ribs press against dirty, wounded skin. Patches of fur missing. Dried blood crusts into grime across its back. Teeth yellowed and jagged. Drool drips.

Its bloodshot eyes lock onto mine.

Not scared.

Not aggressive.

Just patient. Measuring.

It stops a few feet in front of me and sniffs the air.

I hold still. Don’t give it a reason to move closer. In a place like this, one wrong move feels like a decision I might not get to take back.

We stand like two weary warriors a few seconds longer.

Then it moves on. Slow. Deliberate. Its head turns just enough to keep me in its sightline, not ruling me out completely.

I watch it go, praying it doesn’t change its mind.

Finally, the alley swallows it.

“Phew,” I mutter, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

Time stretches, not in minutes, but in how long everything lingers.

Sounds carry strange on the breeze. Laughter doesn’t sound right. A distant crack could be gunfire. Voices rise and fall like arguments that never finish. No one reacts to anything. Like nothing that happens here surprises anyone anymore.”

I check the street.

No Juan.

Check again.

Still no Juan.

A sudden itch flares under my skin. Not nerves. Not panic. Something deeper. Like part of my brain is struggling to get my attention without making a scene... and I’m not listening.

When Juan comes back, he isn’t alone.

The guy with him looks baked by the sun too long. Skin pulled tight in places, sagging in others. His eyes burn red, either from the bottle or something worse. He doesn’t look at me so much as through me. The kind of eyes that don’t quit.

“Ricardo,” Juan says. “Delahunt. He gets us out.”

I reach out. His hand swallows mine. Dry, cracked, hard as stone. Doesn’t give an inch.

“Dawn,” he says. “You’re ready or you’re dead.”

Then he walks off like we've already agreed to something.

I watch him go. “You trust that guy?”

“He’s all we got.”

“And—”

“He owes me.”

I’m afraid to ask. So, I don’t.

_____

Our room sits down a narrow alley that smells like fish gone bad, diesel, and some godawful mold that crawls up my nose and stays there fighting the river rot. It’s a stench that sticks to my clothes, my hair, and under my fingernails.

Inside, isn’t much better.

Two metal cots. One bulb hanging from a stripped wire, swaying just enough to make me duck. The window has bars. Three are missing.

“Five-star accommodations,” I say.

Juan drops his pack. “We lay low.”

Gunshots crack outside. Voices rise. A bottle shatters under the window.

I sit on the edge of the cot. The faded green fabric, smeared with black splotches, sags under me and lets out a tired creak. “Lay low, huh?”

Juan smirks. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Won’t be here long.”

“Damn. I was planning out the week.”

He gives me a look. “Let’s get a drink.”

_____

I smell the bar before I see it.

Sour rum. Stale beer. Sweat baked into wood. Thick smoke with nowhere to go. And something metallic underneath it all— blood or gun oil, probably both.

It looks straight out of Predator, with characters rivaling Dutch’s jungle-hardened crew. Tables and chairs are cobbled from driftwood, metal scraps, and splintered pallets, wobbly and rough. Looks like they’ve survived quite a few fights.

No one looks up when we walk in. That’s the first thing that feels wrong.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“Eyes down,” Juan says.

“Got it.”

I don’t.

_____

The game along the far wall catches my eye.

A crude carving of a chicken in rough-hewn planks. Three characters stand in front of it, knives the size of my forearm in their hands.

The woman throws first. The blade sticks high, where a wing might have been. She doesn’t react.

A guy steps up and buries his knife dead center. The room erupts.

The third guy misses. He throws again. People duck when the second knife bounces off the wall. A beer mug shatters. Laughter rolls through the place.

“Looks like you’re fetching, Rafa.” the woman says.

He doesn’t argue. He walks out back.

“What the hell is he fetching?” I ask.

Juan doesn’t answer.

The guy comes back holding a chick. Alive. Struggling. Making small, frantic sounds.

It doesn’t last.

Crunch. Blood splatters his chin. The room loves it. They clap, hoot, and holler.

My stomach turns. “Jesus.”

Juan shrugs. “You hungry?”

_____

The bar doesn’t settle. If anything, it wants more. I take it in piece by piece. No cops. No uniforms. No one stepping in. Whatever happens here... stays here.

This is their town.

_____

Further down the bar, she catches my eye.

She’s lean. She’s cut. Sweat slicks her skin. A rifle slung over her shoulder like an extra appendage. A machete strapped to her thigh well-worn from use. Nothing on her looks like decoration.

She isn’t laughing. Isn’t talking. Just watching.

I hold her gaze a second too long. Didn’t mean to. Something about her pulls me in. The way she sits. Confident and sensual at the same time. She’s at home here. No one bothers her.

She tips her bottle back, running her tongue along its neck. She never breaks eye contact. I’m stuck there. Then she lowers it.

Juan doesn’t look up. “Trying to get us killed before we even start?”

“Just observing.”

“Observe less.”

I drag my eyes away, but I still feel her.

That’s when something shifts.

It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. Just something in the air flips a switch. I glance toward the bar. Three guys, watch us like we walked into someplace we don’t belong.

“The guys by the bar,” I say.

Juan doesn’t look. “I see them.”

“And?”

“Don’t look again.”

I look anyway. One smiles. It’s not friendly. You know when eyes don’t match intent. They say something to each other, then start toward us.

“You got a plan?” I ask.

“Don’t talk unless you have to.”

They stop at our table. Sewer rats would smell better. The biggest one leans in, crooked yellow teeth caked with his last meal, something stringy dangles, locks eyes with me—not Juan.

“Oye. Que hacen aqui.”

Juan answers calm. “Just passing through.”

The guy ignores him.

“Looks like ya don’t belong.” His hand clamps my shoulder.

I shrug. “We aren’t staying long.”

His grip tightens. “Ain’t what I asked.”

The room tightens. People listen without turning their heads. One wrong word. One wrong move and that’s it.

Juan nudges me under the table.

I lean back slow. Hands where they can see them. Look the guy straight in the eyes. “Ever been somewhere you didn’t belong.”

The guy blinks.

He didn’t expect that.

“You feel it right away,” I say. “Know it’s not your place. But you’re there anyway. So you make the best of it. Killin’ time.”

Silence stretches.

“You figure out who matters. Who doesn’t. Who’s gonna be a problem.” I glance at the others. “And who isn’t.”

I catch him off guard. He’s not angry. He’s not calm either. He’s measuring. Then he lets out a short, raspy laugh.

“Careful,” he says. “Ya think too much.”

“Sometimes.”

He straightens. Looks at Juan. “Your friend talk?”

Juan shrugs. “Sometimes.”

The guy nods. He lets my shoulder go and steps back. The other two follow.

Just like that. The room loosens again. Barely.

Juan doesn’t look at me. “Not bad.”

“We didn’t die.”

“Not yet.”

_____

Back in the room, nothing's changed. The bulb still sways. Three bars are still missing. Same smell.

But everything feels different.

I sit on the cot, hands pulsing.

“You handled that well, Ricardo.”

I stare at the floor. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t hesitate.”

“Nope.”

He nods as though I answered something.

_____

I can’t sleep. The bar sticks with me. Not the stench. Not the noise nor the characters. It’s the feeling. Like rules didn’t apply. Or maybe they do, but not the ones I walked in with.

I step outside. The alley's quiet, but that doesn’t mean safe. I walk without thinking. Not far. A door stands half open, light spills out. Another bar. Mostly empty. A few bodies slumped over tables. One’s breathing. One’s not.

Behind the bar, a sheet ripped from a calendar hangs crooked. Torn, stained, and marked up.

I stare at it.

Something's off.

I look again.

April. Thirty-one.

I frown. “That’s not even a day.”

No one answers.

I step closer.

April 31. Crossed out in red, like it already happened. Like this was a day meant for something.

I think about the first bar. The sewer rat gripping my shoulder. The room tightening. I didn’t freeze. Didn’t stumble. Didn’t second guess a damn word. I knew exactly what to say. Exactly how to say it. Like I'd done it before.

That's what sticks.

Not the knives. Not the chick and the sound it made before it went quiet. Not the blood.

How easy it came to me.

I rub my jaw, still staring at the date. “April thirty-first,” I mutter.

Still wrong. Still impossible. Yet... I lived it.

No one in that room blinked at it. And neither did I. That should bother me more than it does.

Behind me, a chair scrapes across the floor. I don’t turn. I keep my eyes on that date. Trying to make sense of it. Maybe it’s not the calendar that’s off. Maybe it’s me.

Outside, an argument breaks. A gun fires.

I don’t flinch. Don’t move.

I just stand there, staring at a date that doesn’t exist, realizing I lived and survived it.

And worse—

I know exactly how to survive it again.