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I point. “There.”

Laura follows the direction and smiles. “La Estrella.”

“What is it?”

“Mexican grocery. Tiny restaurant in the back.”

“I want that.”

“We were going to the Blue Plate diner.”

“We can do that another day. This smells good now.”

Laura laughs and turns into the parking lot. La Estrella is small and loud. A television plays near the counter. Two people are talking in another language beside shelves crowded with cans, bottles, dried peppers, and things I cannot name. Behind the counter, meat hits a hot cooking surface and sends up the smell that brought me inside. A woman near Laura’s age recognizes her.

“Laura.”

“Hi, Yuliana.”

Then Yuliana sees me. Her eyebrows rise.

I’ve seen that pause before. I stay where I am while she takes in my face, my hands, the visible weave at my neck. Nothing inside me tightens the way it did the first few times strangers stopped at the sight of me.

“This is Kell,” Laura says.

Yuliana studies me for about three seconds before asking, “You eat?”

“Yes.”

“Good. What do you like?”

“I don’t know yet.”

That makes her grin. Laura explains the menu. I don’t understand why I should choose between all the choices before tasting any of them, so Yuliana offers to make us a plate with several options to share. I also order the pale drink in the large container beside the register after Yuliana tells me it contains rice and cinnamon.

“You don’t know if you like cinnamon,” Laura says.

“That is why I have to drink it.”

Yuliana points at me. “Exactly.”

Laura mutters that she has lost control of the situation. I don’t think she ever had it.

We sit near the front window. People notice me.

The reaction is different here from Locke’s descriptions of the first weeks after the world learned about him. Nobody runs outside to take photographs through the glass. Nobody calls the police. A man near the grocery coolers stops talking long enough to identify me, then continues his conversation. A woman at another table says something quietly to the teenage boy sitting across from her.

They know a Wicker Man exists. Now there are two.

The tacos arrive, and the first one makes every other thought disappear. I eat half of it before asking Laura which one it is.

“Carnitas.”

“I like carnitas.”

“That was fast.”

“I don’t need more information.”