It had been decades since Malcolm had for the first time seen the yellow glimmering lights of Los Cabos. Then, he had been filled with anticipation, excitement. Now, he felt only dread.

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The plane floated gently downward, the soft whine of the jet engines descending in pitch. Malcolm had nursed his Woodford since takeoff. He stared out the aircraft window into a clear black night. His palms were beginning to moisten. What he was about to do was wrong. Very wrong.

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The flight attendant nudged him to pull his seat upright. He did, killing the last of his bourbon and handing over the glass. After a few more minutes the plane touched down. In less than an hour he was through passport control.

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The old Chevrolet taxi rumbled up the dark dirt road, looking like it was headed into the foothills of nowhere. After another half-mile, they arrived at the doctor’s home. The taxi pulled past the open gate of the walled compound, the tires of the car crunching on the coquina shell drive.

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The house had substance, but was modest, just one story, the light-chocolate stucco walls troweled by hand a century before. A weathered pine portico ran the length of its front. Malcolm exited the car and stood by the open front window of the Chevrolet, leaving his leather satchel on the drive as he handed some pesos to the driver. He could see smoke wafting from a chimney at the back of the house.

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“Well, you seem to have settled nicely into your old age,” said Rafael, stepping out onto the porch. The night air was cool and clean. There had been rain earlier, Malcolm could smell it in the desert evening, the bouquet of wet paper bags. As the taxi pulled away, Malcolm pulled the strap of the satchel onto his shoulder and stepped up onto the porch; they shook hands and gave one another a brief hug at the thick front door made of old oak.

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“Thanks,” said Malcolm. “You’ve aged as well, but not in a good way.”

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Rafael chuckled. “It is nice to have you here. Please, come in.”