CHAPTER SEVENTEENMaria Benitez? Who the hell was that? Googling the name could produce ten million hits easily. I wished I had a photographic memory for numbers. I pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot. Amber waited in her burnt-orange Prius, sipping a coffee. I pulled my convertible top up and grabbed a cup of brew before I joined her.
“Get ready,” she said, as she turned the ignition.
“Dare I ask for what?”
“Some pretty harsh realities.” Amber’s lips twisted briefly. She backed out and drove off.
We rolled past flat fields of soybeans—according to Amber—stretching out in green rows toward a horizon punctuated with trees and a few houses.
“Soybeans are among the most important crops in this region,” Amber explained.
“Why?”
“They have many uses. They feed people and livestock, for on
