Francisco looks down the long wintry road. Wisps of mist hang over the dark trees. The sound of the cooling engine fills his ears, click, click, click.
He takes his hands out of his pockets and checks his watch. He will give them fifteen minutes, no more, no less.
His breath steams into the cold air. Six minutes to go.
Why didn’t he leave?
Because. Because.
A vulture drops down from the mountains.
The rumble of a car. A single gunshot. All his time is gone.
The vulture loops overhead. No sound but the tyres on that long road.