The old man reached us before I reached the car.
Hector had the kind of face that looked like California had been using it as a cutting board for thirty years. Deep grooves, sun damage that no healer would touch because the damage had opinions about being removed, and eyes that were still sharp enough to make me straighten up without thinking about it. His cane was wood with a brass ferrule, and the hand wrapped around it had two fingers missing on the right side, ring and pinky, the stumps healed smooth and old.
"You're the burger kid," he said, and his voice came out of his chest like an engine turning over in cold weather. "My granddaughter showed me the clip. Forty-one million views. You know how many views my best fishing video got?"
"I don't, sir."
"Twelve. And three of them were me checking if the upload worked."
