The border heat hit different in Santo Padre dry, restless, like the air itself remembered blood. EZ had gotten used to it again. The smell of oil, exhaust, and smoke clinging to him no matter how many times he showered. Club life didn’t let you stay clean long. But that day, he noticed someone new hanging around the edges of SANPA’s lot. A guy with nervous hands and eyes that never stopped moving.

“He’s with Alvarez,” Bishop said. “Doing odd jobs. Keep your distance.” EZ nodded, but something about the man didn’t sit right. Too careful, too quiet. And then he caught him smoking behind the garage the ink on his scalp faded but familiar.

Juice Ortiz

Everyone thought he was dead.

Later, when EZ saw him talking to her laughing for the first time since he’d been around he understood why the man looked like he’d crawled out of hell. He wasn’t just hiding from SAMCRO. He was hiding from himself. And suddenly, EZ wasn’t sure who he pitied more Juice, for the ghosts that followed him, or himself, for wanting the same girl who made a dead man smile.