Eduardo’s mother is a very good cook.
Too good, in fact.
I have just awakened from a deep empanada-induced food coma with an epiphany.
Fleeing Santa Cruz for Mexico was not rational.
I think I conflated feelings with facts and reacted emotionally.
The guys at the lumber yard made it sound like fun: riding in the back of a pickup truck using garbage bags full of leaves as both cushions and covers, crossing the border at Tijuana or Tecate, maybe spending the night in Ensenada, going fishing.
Who could say no to that?
I have now realized I wasn’t fleeing because I had to. I was fleeing from the anxiety of the uncertainty.
An adventure sounded a lot better than sticking around.
I must return to Santa Cruz.
Eduardo’s mom is yelling something in Spanish. Pretty sure it is directed at Eduardo.
“Ahorita! Ahorita!” she keeps repeating.
I must go now.