I’m standing in front of Don Adán’s house overlooking a breathtaking view of the valleys below. The air is crisp and cool, tingling my nostrils and healing my gut as it enters me. I may still be nursing a moonshine hangover, but nothing could take the beauty away from this view, not even the liquid death I ingested at the moonshiner’s house yesterday.
A rooster struts in the gravel in front of me. He fluffs his feathers and mad dogs me with his right eye. I suspect this is the same rooster that has been waking me up every night at 2:30 am, perching in the middle of the tree right outside my door and crowing full blast. I stare back at him.
