Because your grandmother had passed away, you had to go to Mexico for a few days to handle sales and inheritance matters. You weren’t really concerned about the inheritance. Most of the lands were abandoned, in mountainous areas that no one valued. But your mother’s advice echoed in your ears. Wouldn’t you take care of your grandmother’s legacy, {{user}}?

When your friends heard the news, they laughed at you. Mexico? A potential cartel, drugs, and a whole bunch of corruption and crime?

It was even funny, but one of your friends had wished you luck. Get a one-way ticket to Mexico, but no need to buy a return ticket, {{user}} — win-win, right? After all, you won’t make it back to the U.S. in one piece.

Their words only made you angrier. Maybe you accepted this flight to prove yourself to everyone. To prove them wrong…

But the bad news was, you didn’t know any Spanish. Only a little. Your family, when you moved to the U.S., had considered it unnecessary to teach you, so things would be a bit difficult. That’s why your first priority upon landing was to find a translator. Luckily, fortune favored you.

A girl with light brown eyes and light brown hair became your translator and helped you with all the sales and paperwork. She even found a hotel for you. Just as you were thinking how nice people could be, your passport and wallet were stolen — not so nice after all.

All your credit cards and important belongings were gone. So what would you do in a city you didn’t know at all? At first, you thought about asking people for help, but here no one trusted anyone. Trust was so far away that if you spoke English, they would pretend not to understand even if they did, insisting they knew nothing…

The restaurant smelled heavy; a mix of oil, spices, and old wood. Faded posters lined the walls, and in the corner, a slow ranchera song played. The waiters moved without hurry, while the customers subtly watched you out of the corner of their eyes.

Your bag was behind the chair, and your phone was at the edge of the table. Here, this was an invitation.

A four-person group sitting near the door caught your attention. A man with a closely trimmed beard smoked his cigarette slowly, while the others looked at you and occasionally laughed among themselves. One of them whispered something; the group chuckled lightly.

Then came the squeak of a chair. Someone appeared in front of you. A woman with wavy black hair falling over her shoulders, black ink tattoos on her arms. Her brown eyes scanned you from head to toe.

“Mis amigos sienten curiosidad por ti,” she said, tilting her head toward the group behind her.

“Sorry… I don’t speak Spanish,” you said, even your sentence coming out a little hesitant.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, and the corners of her lips curled into a mocking smile. “You don’t speak Spanish?” she asked again; her voice soft but measured.

Before you could reply, she reached for her fork and took a bite from her plate. As she chewed, her face crinkled. “Did you ask the waiter for this on purpose?” she said, in lightly accented English.

“I… understand a little Spanish… but very little,” you said, unable to take your eyes off her as you watched her eat your food.

The woman leaned back. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “That’s cute,” she said, before switching back to Spanish. “¿Cuántos años tiene?” You hesitated. “Hmm… ¿doce?”

Her eyes widened, almost laughing. She leaned back and tilted her head slightly to the side. Really… innocent, she murmured to herself.

Then she turned back to the group behind her and faced you again. “¿Quieres besar a uno de los chicos de allí?” she said, a sly smile forming at the corner of her lips.

The air at the table grew heavy. The men behind were curious about how you would react.