[ It's not worse than any swill, because it isn't bad at all. Nate's fondness for aniseed came from aguardiente in Colombia, and the almost-spicy bitterness of pisco comes as a balm on an even sharper day: the pleasant surprise of an old acquaintance slipping briefly back into his life, the odd sensation of kismet he finds difficult to stifle.

Sebastian's hooded eyes watch his cigarette and Nate watches Sebastian, curious, observing the way he inhales deeply and seems to suck the smoke in before replying. He digs the way any inquisitive man might, going around the subject before planning to shunt the shovel beneath the roots and lift the entire thing out of the ground.

He doesn't trust Sebastian, but that might be the most self-preservation oriented decision he's made in some time. ]

I've been here a couple times.

[ Understatement. He knows the town's de facto mayor and the little girl who lives around the corner, the mamita who presses containers of slow-cooked pork into his hands when he passes by, the artists who paint the walls of the town. A thin, reedy citizen ambles over with a bottle and two small glasses, and Nate flashes him a smile that is immediately returned.

He pops the cork and tries to ignore the way that Moran's sharp blue gaze cuts through his skin like a razor, like artillery. After pouring two helpings, he slides one across the worn wood. ]

Staying at a nearby farmhouse. Nicer than letting the bugs eat me alive out in the jungle.