The Antioch Review, September 22nd, 2007
After the plate of undercooked beans and crumbly tortillas, Ryan had half an hour before his bus for Huehuetenango, so he ordered coffee. The waiter, an old man with gray hairs hanging from his nose, said he had something special and hurried into the back. By that evening Ryan would see his old friend Jim. It'd been eight years since they'd spoken and in that time Jim had become a Maryknoll priest, a missionary, posted here in Guatemala. There really was no accounting for life, Ryan thought. The old man came out of the back with a cup, taking small steps. "Nescafe," he said, setting the cup d...
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