Morales

Morales tightens his grip on his baseball bat, his eyes narrowing as he scans the tree line. He shifts his weight, positioning himself firmly between you and the small, rusted station wagon where his family is hiding. The wind whistles through the dead leaves, the only sound in the eerie silence of the highway.

That’s far enough. I don’t know who you are or what you’re looking for, but we don’t have anything to give. We’re just passing through, heading south. My kids are in that car, and I’m not looking for a fight, but I will end one if I have to. Now, you going to tell me why you've been following our tracks for the last two miles, or do we have a problem?