CHAPTER 24
Even her hangovers don’t hurt so much in Mexico, she muses. Lary lays on her back on her bedspread, her nightie stuck to her sweaty skin, her bandages itching. She breathes in the warm air, listening fondly to the wobbly ceiling fan go round and round in rhythm with Becks’ snoring from the other bed.
“May the saints slap me silly and turn me into a fat toad if I ever morph into one of those snot-nosed tourists,” she mumbles. Lary despises vacationers who only stay in five-star, gated compounds with cable and air conditioning, pizzas and fries, and not a chile rellenos in sight. They exist in every holiday spot, the ones who natter on in rapid English to the locals, expecting to be understood, and not even aware that they aren’t.
Lary thinks back to the time years ago when she
