The rising sun paints the eastern sky as we pull into the Flamingo Motel parking lot. We've been up all night hitting ATMs across Miami, and exhaustion weighs on me like a wet blanket. Still, there's a certain satisfaction in a job well done.
Miguel parks in the shadows near my room and cuts the engine. "Time to split the take."
He pulls out the stacks of twenties we've collected and starts counting with practiced efficiency. Five thousand dollars looks impressive spread across the dashboard.
"Here's how we do this," Miguel explains. "Four thousand covers Tommy's debt to Vargas with interest." He separates the stacks. "I get four hundred as crew leader, you get four hundred for doing main work, and Ricky gets two hundred."
I watch him divide the cash, doing quick mental math. Four hundred dollars is good money, almost three weeks' worth of convenience store shifts, but I'm still three hundred short for a decent used car.
"That work for you?" Miguel asks, handing me my share.
I pocket the cash. "Works fine."
Ricky counts his two hundred dollars with childlike glee. "Two hundred smackeroos! Not bad for one night's work, eh partner?"
"Not bad at all," I agree, stifling a yawn.
Ricky tucks his money away and suddenly perks up. "Hey partner, want to see something cool tomorrow morning? I know a place in the swamps where we can practice shooting."
I hesitate, I know Ricky for only one day.
"Come on," Ricky insists, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "You need to get comfortable with that revolver if you're gonna be working with us. I can pick you up around nine."
Miguel nods approvingly. "Not a bad idea. You handled yourself well so far, but proper practice never hurts."
I consider my options. My shift at Manny's ends at six AM, which gives me barely three hours to sleep before Ricky's swamp adventure. But Miguel's right, that I need practice.
"Alright," I agree. "Pick me up here at nine."
***
The convenience store feels different tonight. Every customer, every transaction, every minute ticking by on the clock reminds me that I'm leaving this life behind. My legitimate job, my tenuous connection to normal society, I'm trading it all for Miguel's world of illegal activities and corrupt cops.
At 2:17 AM, the bell above the door chimes. Dee walks in, her bright smile cutting through my fatigue.
"Hey there, Mr. Midnight Cashier!" She sets her cleaning supplies by the counter. "How's your shift going?"
"Same as always." I pour her usual coffee. "How was yours?"
"Three executive floors, two bathrooms with mysterious stains, and one secretary's desk covered in nail polish." She accepts the coffee with a dramatic sigh. "Just another glamorous night in the cleaning business."
I slide a honey bun across the counter. "On the house."
"My hero." She takes a bite, studying my face. "You look tired. Everything okay?"
For a moment, I consider telling her everything: the time travel, the rewinds, Miguel and Vargas, the ATM marathon. Instead, I shrug. "Just thinking about making some changes."
"What kind of changes?" She leans forward, genuinely interested.
"Career changes. This job was always temporary."
"Moving up in the world, huh?" She grins. "Got something lined up?"
I think about Miguel's offer, the surveillance job on O'Malley. "Something like that."
"Well, don't forget us little people when you're rich and famous." She winks, finishing her coffee.
Our conversation feels heavier tonight. When she leaves, I watch her go, wondering if pursuing anything with her is fair when I'm diving headfirst into Miami's criminal underworld.
At 5:57 AM, Manny arrives for the morning shift, keys jingling as he unlocks the door.
"Morning, José," he calls, using my fake ID name. "How was the night?"
"Quiet." I hand him the register key. "Listen, Manny, I need to talk to you about something."
He looks up from counting the till. "What's up?"
"I appreciate the job, but I've got to move on. Today was my last shift."
Manny stops counting, surprise clear on his face. "You sure you got something better lined up?"
I nod. "Something came through. Good opportunity."
"Must be," he says, eyebrows raised. "You've been here what, two weeks? Most guys don't leave steady work without something solid."
"It's solid," I assure him, though "solid" might not be the right word for joining Miguel's crew.
Manny shrugs. "Well, good luck to you, José. You were a good worker." He reaches into the register and counts out sixty dollars. "Your last shift."
I take the money, feeling a strange finality as I pocket it. "Thanks for everything, Manny."
***
Ricky picks me up at 9:15 in a battered pickup truck that's seen better days. Despite my exhaustion from only three hours of sleep, his enthusiasm is infectious.
"Ready to blast some cans, partner?" He tips his cowboy hat as I climb in.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
We drive west, leaving Miami's concrete jungle for the swampy wilderness of the Everglades. Ricky chatters the entire way, jumping between topics.
"My daddy taught me to shoot when I was eight," he explains, taking a dirt road that seems to lead nowhere. "Said a man needs to know three things: how to fix what's broken, how to grow what feeds him, and how to protect what matters."
The truck bounces over ruts and potholes, penetrating deeper into the swampland. Finally, we stop in a clearing surrounded by cypress trees. Empty cans and bottles line a fallen log about twenty yards away.
"Welcome to the Six-Gun Saloon!" Ricky announces, jumping out of the truck. He pulls a canvas bag from behind the seat. "Got everything we need right here."
The air is thick with humidity and the buzz of insects. In the distance, something splashes in murky water.
"Alligators?" I ask, eyeing the nearby water warily.
"Oh sure, but they won't bother us unless we bother them." Ricky sets up more cans along the log. "Now, let's see what you've got with that revolver."
I draw my .38 Special, feeling its weight. Now I'm in the swamps learning to use it better.
"Stand like this," Ricky demonstrates a proper stance. "Feet shoulder-width apart, strong arm extended but not locked, support hand cupping the bottom."
I mimic his posture, aiming at a can twenty yards away.
"Breathe in, exhale halfway, then squeeze, don't pull, the trigger," he coaches.
I fire. The can remains untouched.
"That's alright," Ricky encourages. "Try again. Focus on the front sight, not the target."
We spend the next hour shooting. With Ricky's guidance, my accuracy improves. By the end, I'm hitting seven out of ten cans.
"Not bad for a beginner," Ricky nods approvingly. "You're a natural, partner."
As we reload, Ricky's eyes fix on my wrist.
"Whoa, what in tarnation is that?" He points at my cheap Casio digital watch.
I instinctively cover it with my hand before remembering digital watches exist in 1978, just not commonly.
"This?" I try sounding casual. "Just a watch."
Ricky gently grabs my wrist, turning it to examine the monochrome display with its slightly glowing numbers. "I've never seen such a watch. Where did you get them?"
"Japanese imports," I say, inventing quickly. "Guy at the port had a few. Latest technology."
Ricky's face scrunches up. "Looks like something from Star Trek. What's wrong with a normal watch with hands? How do you even know it's right?"
"It's accurate to the second," I explain. "Digital precision."
He releases my wrist, shaking his head. "Don't trust it. My granddaddy's pocket watch never needed no battery. Worked for forty years until the day he died."
I nod respectfully, making a mental note to be more careful. It's strange realizing how alien even simple technology from my time appears to people here.
"To each his own," I say, holstering my gun. "Ready for another round?"