Break

Nobody knew me in Quebec. Bruce had chosen the city because of it; and besides, even if I had deflated, I didn't have enough gas left to continue further north. Barely 10 liters. Along with my dollar, Bruce's letter, was all I had. My suitcase, let's not talk about it, for what it contained. I forget: I had in the trunk of the car the little revolver which rested close to his body which lay in the blood in the heart of this white sheet, an unfortunate cheap 6.35; it was still in his pocket when the Sheriff came to tell my uncle and me to take the body home for burial. This revolver made me that person and all my memories attached to Puebla, a city that now belongs to my past and which abounds with the saddest of my memories. I have to say that I relied on Bruce's letter more than anything else, because that letter contained all the instructions I needed to follow to settle in Quebec City effortlessly and unnoticed. It had to work, it had to work. I looked at my hands on the steering wheel, my fingers, my fingernails. Really no one could find fault with it. No risk there. Maybe I was going to get out of this new adventure more risky than a pact with the devil... My uncle Pablito had known Bruce in college. Bruce did not behave with him like the other students.