The bus shook like a hundred others he’d taken. In half-asleep dreams, he imagined dozens of them rolling off a central assembly line, maybe somewhere in China, and shipped around the world to every bus operator in the world, because wherever you went, there they were. 

This one creaked to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust. 

“Belleza,” the driver shouted. 

Malik snapped awake and grabbed a tan satchel, running to the front of the bus. He tipped his hat before jumping headfirst into the dust cloud. Some of the other passengers stared down at him from the window; most were on a long-haul journey north, and Belleza was not the type of place people got off. But by all appearances, Malik wasn’t from around here. One of those gringos with a death wish. 

He walked one minute down the scraggly road to the town center. Messy layers of black wire ran between the utility poles. Around one building they were simple and organized, legitimate-seeming. The clear square windows were open and the tiles inside gleamed. 

“Welcome to Belleza, man,” said the owner of the café in American English, a slight drawl in his accent.

“Thanks,” he said. “Can I get a coffee?” 

“Iced or hot?” 

Malik shook his head slightly. Choice was a luxury here, where coffee always came hot, even if he sweat through his shirt. This life ran on constant caffeine and he preferred it quick. The man passed him a paper cup. 

After his first sip, he could manage to be a pleasant person. 

“How long have you been here?”

“Moved from Austin five years ago,” the barista replied. “And I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.” 

Malik studied the blond man across the counter from him. They were both out of place. But among their many differences, this man could actually manage to stay somewhere. He and plenty of others had moved south from the U.S. to turn this old Spanish colonial town into a little paradise of yoga retreats and Airbnbs. Whereas Malik didn’t believe in paradises. 

So he spent a lot of time sleeping on buses and flights. His mind was always on business. 

“Do you know where an archive might be?”

“An archive? Like a physical archive?” The man danced between the pastry shelf and the sink on the far side of the café. “There’s a bookstore down the way. I suppose that’s kind of like a library. Which is kind of like an archive.” 

Malik looked off onto the street, shaking his head again. He didn’t follow the logic at all, but it was better than nothing. He could probably search the town within a day. Fortunately, he had time. Jobs had been drying up. He had started this work finding artifacts, but then the industry moved away from anything that might be considered loot, and he’d been afloat ever since. 

He just couldn’t sit in an office. He tried being a journalist, but he couldn’t stand his subject matter, especially when it was the politicians—at least he didn’t pretend to care about a place. After that, he did some private investigations, until one angry subject attacked him, leaving him the gift of a minor injury. It turns out some people don’t want to be found. 

So after turning forty, he went back to objects, even if it took him to some strange places. A lot of family heirlooms in old houses, in the Rust Belt or European hinterland. But now he was looking for a piece of paper. He knew what the paper was, but not much beyond that. He had learned not to ask too many questions. 

The road looked like so many in Central America’s dry corridor. Small concrete homes and shops, dotted with all the trappings of democratic capitalism: ads for refrescos for twenty lempiras, political posters for another likely corrupt candidate—¡Vota sí! The Honduran landscape blended with the others and as his feet moved instinctively towards the bookstore, his mind became unfocused. Thoughts that drifted from work were not pleasant. Thoughts about where else he could be right now—the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica, in the surfing town where he could never surf enough and he could never tell its best resident how much he loved her, at least not enough to settle down there forever and ever until all that came before was forgotten. 

“Your adventuring can be over,” Liliana told him then. 

He’d answered that it could not. It was saddening to think the best was behind him. They were thigh-to-thigh at an open-air bar a few blocks from the beach, a few blocks from her mother’s house. The wind blew chestnut hair in her freckled face, and he pushed it out before she could get to it. If perfection were possible, he might have left it in Guanacaste province. 

It was saddening to think the best was behind him. 

He could always have dropped his clients, changed his line of work, and stayed right there. It was all a matter of what was most important to someone. Someone who almost didn’t recall the small town where he grew up, barely spoke with his family. Packing his bags and moving was a natural instinct, or had become one. The way his employers had cast him into dicey situations—and the way they got away with it—only affirmed he should not become attached to any one thing, or person. 

Liliana had accepted his answer, with grace, because that’s who she was. But she told him that leaving might not help him find what he was looking for, wouldn’t cure his restlessness. Wherever you go, she said, waving as if to present him. There you are. 

The line of buildings broke in one place where grass grew in, offering a glimpse of the valley’s rolling hills, the windy roads that sickened passengers, the coffee plantations that made Honduras a little less poor. A black Labrador raised its head at seeing him, and came up for a pet. Malik’s smile broke his dour mood. 

This job was as simple as the dog’s grin. Get the piece of parchment from the archive, wherever it was. No complications. 

The bookstore’s wood-laden front, next to a café and a pupusería, looked like it could have slotted in anywhere in the world. There were tomes of García Márquez and translated John Grisham in the window. Gaudy green carpet led past the stacks to a counter. Not a single customer. Malik didn’t know many people who read. 

A young woman in a loose-fitting blouse stood behind the counter, her background ambiguous; she could have been from San Pedro Sula, she could have been from San Diego. He explained what he was looking for while her green eyes sized him up as well. 

“I don’t think I’ve heard of that one,” she said.

He felt heat rising in him again. “Well, it’s not a book.” 

“Relax! Just messing with you,” she said. “You’re the first person who’s shown up here all day, can’t I have a little fun?” 

She watched for him to lighten up, and saw she’d keep waiting. 

“So serious.” 

“I was told it’d be an archive.” 

She turned to the cash register, as if he’d be making a purchase, which he was prepared for.

“We do have some shelves, in the back,” she replied after a moment, nervous, as if she’d said something she wasn’t supposed to. She pulled out a key. “Shall we look?” 

He eagerly followed to the door behind her, grateful that he didn’t have to wait for her to return and shrug. He doubted it was back there. But this allowed him to be thorough.

When he caught up with her, she was a few feet deep into a narrow corridor with cubes of files on either side. If she let him, Malik could comb through the room for half a day. She was under a column labeled “Misc.” The filing system was in English. 

“Who owns this store?” he said. 

“A family that lives in the U.S. now,” she said. 

“And how long have you worked here?”

“Since I had a bad fall hiking and decided I liked books more. Since I fell in love with this town a year ago.” Her fingers paused between pages. “I fall out of love sometimes. But there’s no one like my neighbors.” 

He leaned over the case with her. It was dark, so he lit up his mini flashlight. She smiled appreciatively at it; people weren’t used to not seeing it on a phone. Then she yanked out a folder that read “CONTRACTS.”

She turned to him—close, face to face—and planted it in his open hands. 

“And you just let any customer back here who asks?” 

“Nobody ever asks,” she said. “You’re trustworthy. It’s in your face.” 

Liliana had chosen to trust, and gotten burned. 

“What do you mean by that?”

She nodded to the file. “Your papers are getting cold.” 

He took them back to the counter in the store. As he unfurled the file, he caught her expectantly watching; he supposed this was the price for unfettered access. 

“Anyone ever tell you curiosity killed the cat?” he muttered.

She shrugged with a grin. 

He respectfully flipped past any papers that looked related only to the bookstore. There weren’t that many, because it was one spot of real estate, not too many suppliers, and barely anything related to utilities, as keeping the lights on in Honduras was something of an informal business, to understate it. He stopped at the end of the file ready to leave, but there was one last, faded piece of paper. 

It was a government-issued document recording a sale and it detailed a much larger parcel than the one on which they stood. His client wanted it personally escorted back to the States, he assumed so that they could lay claim to the tract. 

“That’s some farmland east of here,” the woman said. “Is four hundred hectares a lot?” 

It was plenty. It would certainly have made it worthwhile to send Malik all the way down here. 

The woman said her name was Maya and she was from New Mexico. She asked how long he was in town. He said not for long now. She said, “That’s a shame.” “I can stay for dinner,” he offered. She smiled and said okay. 

He assured himself he wasn’t getting involved with someone again. But now he would skip the next bus out of town. 

It didn’t feel wrong at dinnertime. She took him to an outdoor pupusería, family run, where the founding grandma still cooked up cheese-filled pastries while the younger ones waited tables. 

“I told my boss that you’re taking the file,” she said. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. Surprised you didn’t earlier.” Her contemplation seemed unusual to him.  “Something wrong?”

“I’ve just been trying to wrap my head around the contract. There’s people there. Growing coffee, mainly. Of course, the crop’s doing worse and farmers are leaving. But they are there.” 

“Do they have title to the land?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, then.” 

“Well, then.” 

She was looking back at him now, realizing who he might be working for. Another large foreign company, here to make a buck. Another corporation that would get its way. The government, for the time being, was hostile to companies like this and would make a fuss over it, but by that time, the farmers would be on buses to the U.S. or another country that would allow them in, give them a new life temporarily or forever, papers or not. 

“And it can’t be any other way, can it?” 

“Afraid not.”

She saw that despite his answer, he wasn’t cold about it. She felt his sympathy. She told him about her old corporate job. The conversation turned pleasant again, and she continued to be warm with him, all the way to her house. 

She ran a hand over the scar on his back as he climbed out of bed, the one he’d earned during the private investigation gone wrong. 

“Sometimes I take bets on people,” she said. 

“The ones who seem trustworthy?” 

He felt trustworthy. He had been clear about what he would and wouldn’t do. 

“Handsome helps.” She brushed his scar again, as if to see if he would react. “But I’m hoping you understand what it’s like to be hurt.” 

“I’m not sure about that logic. Hurt people hurt people.” 

She also rose from bed. Her boss had gotten back to her, saying the town’s mayor wanted to speak with him. He wasn’t sure why, but agreed, and asked where the office was. 

She said, Oh no—he wants to meet you for a beer.

Malik suspected where this was headed. He’d pissed someone off and now they were going to make him pay. He questioned whether he should go.

“Do you want me to come with you?” 

He shook his head and kissed her goodbye. That evening, he went to the bar, an open patio where he supposed anyone could shoot him. The man came out to meet him, alone, waving to multiple people on his way in. A dark blue sports coat was draped over his burly frame and a popped white collar. He was younger than Malik expected.

The mayor shook his hand with a grin and signaled to the bartender for two cervezas. 

He sat down, pulled his coat close, and cleared his throat, with a delay that about killed Malik. “I wanted to let you know you have my full support for your investment.” 

There was another pause, in which they could clearly hear the high-pitched hoots of owls in the forest. The beers were brought down, cracked open, and poured before Malik spoke.

“I’m not with the company,” he explained. 

His host nodded with a sense of understanding much greater than he could possibly have. “Well, then. You have my support in transferring the title to them. It’s time to put the land to good use.” 

“I’m told there are people there already.” 

“There has been for a while. But look how we’ve transformed this town. We could use like-minded neighbors.”

Malik laughed. “I didn’t think yogis and industrial coffee plantations were natural friends.” 

“The crop has been challenging as it gets drier and drier,” the mayor said. “New investors—and a little reorganization—will do a lot for the community.” 

“And the farmers?”

“They have to find new work or move,” he said. “It’s now or put it off to later.” He leaned forward. “Of course I feel for them, too. But they have to figure it out. We’re learning from your country. You have to be productive. There are two types of people—the ones who create, and the ones who learn to survive.”

The mayor suddenly became interested in the visitor across from him.

“Which one would you say you are?” 

Malik’s answer came off cavalier, but was carefully considered.

“I’m a vulture.”

The mayor laughed. “Yes, I guess we have those too.” 

It was time to fly away. The beer was half finished, but his host would be happy to see him head home soon. Malik rose and shook the mayor’s hand.

Back at the house, Maya’s tranquility was gone. Maybe he had to turn that paper over to the company, she understood, but he didn’t have to keep doing what he was doing. He wanted to believe it. In the end, he just shook his head. These things were fixed long before he ever had a feeling about them. He was lucky to have the work. 

“This place’s had enough men take from it, don’t you think?” she said.

“I don’t decide what is taken and what is given. The job is the job.”

“And you are who you are.”

He turned to her ungracefully on the rigid pillow. “And it can’t be any other way, can it?”

The recognition on her face this time was less surprised, more resigned. 

“Afraid not.” 

In the morning, she was gone. He presumed she had gone to work and practically sighed with relief. Maybe a goodbye wouldn’t be so hard. Then he fumbled in his satchel for the contract. Instead, there was a page clipped from a notebook, clean handwriting in blue ink. 

I don’t need you, it said. And you don’t need this title. 

A drop of water stained the paper. I destroyed it and I’ve left Belleza. I stayed up all night thinking. When I got sick of watching that scar on your back, I read a book from the store. (I left Camus for you on the nightstand.) You don’t know what it means for me to leave this town I’ve made home, but if it’s to keep people here safe from those like you, I’m going. I shouldn’t have let you in. That was my mistake.  

He felt only emptiness inside the bag. Well fuck, he thought. 

The note left a taste like a sour pickle he’d had in Poland. He’d have liked to spit it out but had to consume it in front of his hosts. He felt a similar lack of control now, but also anger. He usually kept objects close, and it wasn’t hers to decide what to do with; the bookstore and the mayor had each agreed he could take it. 

Malik considered whether he should stay. Several things had been taken from the house, but maybe she would come back. Maybe he could forgive her. Or the other way around. Maybe he was tired. 

But that couldn’t be right. 

He promptly packed his bag and moved out of the house. He gave the town and its clay roofs in the quiet valley one last look, and tried to imagine the smiling dog. But there was nothing that he saw. 

The company representative who’d emailed him the job gave him a call not long after. She said, Okay, when he told her the title had been lost. Later came an email saying they would still pay him a partial fee and that they would seek other means of acquiring the land.

We appreciate your discretion, she said. 

I appreciate your money, he almost said. It would keep him on the road longer, more time to find another job. Another opportunity to be in a new place—but to maintain distance with people this time. 

A month later, well after he had been paid, Malik read that the company sued Honduras in an international court for seizing the land; the national police wouldn’t let any outsiders enter. The government’s statement said the tract had been secured under suspicious circumstances and that it was intervening to prevent yet another bloody land dispute. 

His phone lost signal before he could dig too deeply. He was on another bus, having practically forgotten to where, and lowered his hat over his face to take a nap until he reached it.