Hours later, we are showered and dressed. I’ve been given a gift of new clothing from The Alamo General Store. Some underwear, a new pair of Levis, a pair of new black cowboy boots, a cotton button-down, and even a suede vest. The aviator sunglasses I purchased for myself with the few real dollars I had left over, because that’s how Resistance fighters are paid twice per month. In real, US greenbacks.
It’s going on dusk by the time The Alamo villagers, including Gus, Ben, Tony, and myself gather around four newly excavated graves at the far West end of the picnic area. It’s a small piece of land the Resistance has designated as a cemetery. As it turns out, the bodies of my parents, along with Mike Jr. and the van driver, whose name is Eric Gould thanks to his driver’s license, will be the
