Tombstone doesn’t quite register the voice for a second. When he does, he lowers his head, wipes the rain off his face—to no avail, as he’s sitting in the rain—and looks back over his shoulder at a young woman who could be a ballet dancer with her willowy build. It reminds him of the one production he saw in Ukraine, when the iron wasn’t quite so thick everywhere he went.

Tombstone’s smile grows at the memory and he laughs.

“Yeah. I am, actually!” He declares aloud. “Shock and awe.”

Rising abruptly to his feet, Tombstone turned to face the woman—and was maybe a little too close for the exchange, but was reminded of all the intimate conversations he had in Brazil and his smile grew impossibly wider.

“Meu nome é Lápide.” he declared, offering her his hand to shake before switching from Portuguese to English.

“Name’s Tombstone. Good to meet ya.”