---

THE FOURTH CHAPTER OF A SEVEN PART STORY

---

We hit Albuquerque like a watch that had been wound just a little too tight.

Not broken.

Not yet.

But you could feel something inside it straining.

The road widened before the city did.

That’s the first thing I noticed.

Route 66 didn’t so much enter Albuquerque as it announced it—stretching itself out, smoothing its shoulders, letting traffic breathe like it had somewhere important to be, even if nobody could quite say where.

The Expedition didn’t belong here.

Not even a little.

That Stone Blue Metallic paint—clean, deep, confident—caught the sunlight like it had been designed for a world that trusted polish over patina. It rolled past storefronts and gas stations that still believed in enamel signs, hand-lettered prices, and mechanics who listened before they talked.

Heads turned.

Not admiring.

Assessing.

“What’s wrong with these folks?” I muttered.

Hairless didn’t answer right away.

He was watching them right back.

“They ain’t wrong,” he said finally.

I glanced over.

“They’re looking at us like we showed up early,” he continued. “Or late.”

I let that sit.

Because it felt right.

Nob Hill came up on us slow, like it didn’t want to scare the moment away.

Mid-century lines. Clean angles. Flat roofs and optimism baked into every storefront like the future had signed a lease and planned to stay awhile. Neon signs weren’t screaming like Tucumcari—they were confident here. Understated. Like they knew their time hadn’t passed yet.

---

---

I slowed the Expedition to a crawl.

“Now this,” I said, “this is something.”

Hairless shifted in his seat.

Not comfortable.

Not at all.

“You feel that?” I asked.

He reached down.

Pulled the flask from beneath his seat like it had been waiting on him.

“Yeah,” he said, taking a pull. “I feel it.”

“What is it?”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Expectation,” he said. “And fear, wearing the same suit.”

The radio had long since given up pretending to be modern.

🎵 “Runaway…” — Del Shannon 🎵

That one drifted through the cabin like it had somewhere better to be, but figured we might as well tag along.

I didn’t touch it.

Didn’t dare.

Downtown came at us all at once.

And then—

There it was.

The KiMo Theatre.

You don’t find the KiMo.

It finds you.

Built in 1927, right when the Southwest was stretching itself out and deciding what it wanted to be, the KiMo didn’t choose between past and future. It grabbed both and dared them to argue.

Pueblo Deco, they call it.

Which sounds polite.

What it really is… is stubborn.

Indigenous lines. Art Deco geometry. Colors and textures that don’t ask permission to exist in the same space.

Hairless leaned forward.

“Now that,” he said quietly, “is a building that’s seen some things.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Vaudeville. Movies. The Depression. The slow grind of urban renewal trying to smooth out anything with character. And still—it stood there. Like it knew the city needed a memory it couldn’t bulldoze.

We circled once.

Then again.

“Too visible,” Hairless said.

“I was thinking the same.”

We pulled around back.

---

---

Tucked the Expedition behind the KiMo like a secret that hadn’t been told yet.

I shut the engine off.

The silence felt… appropriate.

“Think it’ll be here when we get back?” I asked.

Hairless opened his door.

“Depends who’s doing the remembering,” he said.

We walked.

That felt important.

Like the less of us we carried forward, the less we’d disturb.

The city wasn’t loud.

But it wasn’t quiet either.

It hummed.

Conversations low and close. Radios drifting through open windows. The occasional laugh that sounded like it hadn’t yet learned to be careful.

And underneath it all—

Something else.

News.

We caught it first through a storefront radio.

“…reports indicate that Cuban exiles, backed by United States support, have engaged in operations attempting to overthrow Fidel Castro…”

I slowed.

Hairless didn’t.

“…the situation remains fluid—”

“What the hell is that?” I said.

Hairless kept walking.

“Bay of Pigs,” he said.

I caught up.

“That’s not supposed to be happening.”

He glanced at me sideways.

“Depends when you’re standing.”

The 66 Diner didn’t look like it belonged to one year.

It looked like it had been assembled from several and decided they all worked just fine together.

Chrome. Neon. Tile. Booths that had seen arguments, apologies, and the kind of decisions you don’t write down.

We stepped inside.

And time—

Time tightened.

We took a booth.

Vinyl cracked just enough to be honest.

The waitress didn’t look at us twice.

Which, given everything else, felt like the strangest thing yet.

“Feels normal,” I said.

Hairless nodded.

“Don’t trust it.”

That’s when we heard it.

Not the door.

Not the bell.

The engine.

It rolled in smooth.

Confident.

A sound that didn’t ask if it belonged.

I turned.

And there she was.

Coronna Cream.

White side spears catching the light like they had something to say about it.

The 1961 Chevrolet Impala convertible glided into place like it had been expected.

Top down.

Lines long and clean, stretching just enough to remind you that America once believed in excess as a form of optimism.

Dual antennas at the rear like a pair of exclamation points.

Whitewalls.

Chrome that didn’t apologize.

And that soft, steady idle of a 283 V8 paired to a Turboglide that didn’t so much shift as decide.

“That’s…” I started.

Hairless didn’t let me finish.

“Yeah,” he said.

The door opened.

And out she stepped.

---

---

Lucinda.

Younger.

Sharper.

Not yet worn down by coffee pots and conversations she didn’t ask for.

But unmistakable.

The posture. The eyes. The way she carried herself like she knew exactly how the room worked—even if she hadn’t yet decided what to do with that knowledge.

She wore white.

Of course she did.

But not like a waitress.

More like something between a uniform and a declaration.

Red piping catching the edge of it.

Alive.

Behind her—

Delgado.

Younger too.

Lean.

Dangerous in the quiet way that doesn’t need to prove anything.

White t-shirt stretched just enough to tell you he didn’t waste time.

Levi 501s, cuffs rolled like he had somewhere to be after this.

Black leather jacket that hadn’t yet learned regret.

He stepped up beside her.

Put his arm around her neck.

Pulled her close.

Like he’d done it before.

Like he’d do it again.

And before I could stop myself—

“Lucinda!”

She froze.

Turned.

Looked straight at me.

And for a moment—

A moment—

Something flickered.

Recognition.

Or the ghost of it.

Then it was gone.

Replaced by something sharper.

Something cautious.

Maybe even afraid.

I started to stand.

Started to explain.

Who we were. Where we were from. What this all meant.

Hairless’ boot connected with my shin under the table.

Hard.

“Let it go,” he said.

Low.

Final.

---

---

Delgado stepped in.

Not aggressive.

But clear.

Between her and me.

Between past and present.

Between what I knew and what I thought I could fix.

“Must be a mistake,” I said, backing off, raising a hand like that would smooth it over.

They didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

They moved to the counter.

Ten feet away.

Might as well have been another lifetime.

Lucinda sat.

Crossed one leg over the other.

Looked straight ahead.

“Coffee,” she said. “Just a splash of cream.”

A beat.

“I like my Folgers like my men. Light brown and piping hot.”

---

---

Hairless let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Yep,” he said. “That tracks.”

Delgado leaned in.

Closer than necessary.

Tongue finding its way into her ear like he was trying to make a point nobody else understood.

Hairless shook his head.

“Boy’s ambitious,” he muttered.

Delgado pulled back.

Didn’t look our way.

“Huevos Rancheros,” he said to the waitress. “Eggs over easy. Sauce on the side. Beans not too wet. And don’t burn the tortillas.”

He said it like instructions.

Not a request.

At the far end of the counter, a black-and-white portable TV flickered.

“…continued developments in Cuba…”

“…United States involvement…”

“…uncertain outcomes…”

I stared at it.

Hairless didn’t.

“If they think this is bad,” he said quietly, “just wait a year and a half.”

I looked at him.

“What happens in a year and a half?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

We finished our meal in a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just… understood.

I didn’t look at Lucinda again.

Didn’t trust what I might see.

Or worse—

What I might not.

We waited.

Not because we wanted to.

Because we had to.

Daylight made us obvious.

The Expedition didn’t belong in 1961 any more than we did.

So we waited for the sun to do what it’s always done.

Move on.

Night in Albuquerque didn’t hide things.

It softened them.

Edges blurred.

Certainty loosened.

We walked back toward the KiMo.

The city felt different now.

Not calmer.

Just… less sure of itself.

The Expedition sat exactly where we left it.

Of course it did.

Clean. Silent. Patient.

Like it knew something we didn’t.

I ran a hand along the fender.

Still warm.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We didn’t drive far.

Didn’t need to.

El Vado Auto Court sat along Central like it had been waiting since 1937 for this exact moment.

Thirty-two units. Two rows. Facing each other like they had something to say but hadn’t quite figured out how.

Spanish Pueblo Revival.

Curves where you expected lines.

Beams where you expected clean ceilings.

Irregular on purpose.

Authentic on accident.

The neon sign buzzed softly.

Welcoming.

Or warning.

Hard to tell.

“Swanky tile cabin suites,” I said, reading from a sign that looked like it had never been updated.

Hairless snorted.

“Standards were different.”

“Expectations too.”

We checked in.

No questions asked.

No ID needed.

Just a key.

And a nod.

I pulled the Expedition around back.

Tucked it into shadow.

Same as the KiMo.

Same as us.

I shut it down.

Sat there a moment.

Listening.

That’s when I heard it.

Laughter.

Not just any laughter.

Trixie.

You don’t mistake that sound.

You can’t.

It carries.

Wraps around things.

Makes decisions for you whether you want it to or not.

It drifted out from one of the rooms.

Hairless’ room.

Of course it was.

I looked over at him.

He didn’t look surprised.

Didn’t look anything at all.

Just reached for the door handle.

Paused.

Like he was deciding whether this was something he’d already lived through.

Or something he was about to.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

He opened the door.

Halfway.

Looked back.

“No,” he said.

Then he smiled.

Just enough.

“But you’re gonna see it anyway.”

---

---

The door closed behind him.

The laughter didn’t stop.

I stood there in the quiet.

Albuquerque breathing around me.

1961 settling in like it had every right to.

And for the first time since Amarillo—

I understood something.

You can visit the past.

Drive through it.

Walk its streets.

Sit in its diners.

Even recognize the people you thought you knew.

But you don’t get to edit it.

You don’t get to fix it.

You don’t get to warn anybody about what’s coming.

Because the past—

The past isn’t waiting for you.

It’s already busy being itself.

And all you can do…

Is try not to get in the way.

We were heading west.

Still.

Always.

Not because we knew where it led.

But because the road did.

And that was going to have to be enough.

---

---