A cigarette glows in the dark. Men talking in an alleyway. Trucks parked off to the side. Old broken down Fords on their last leg, rusted Chevys waiting for scrap, filled with junk, busted televisions, soiled mattresses, torn lampshades. Voices are heard from a small group of Mexicans, drinking beer and laughing at jokes in Spanish. A voice from a window above tells them to pipe down. It’s four o’clock in the morning.

A gun is pulled. Again, Spanish is spoken. Something like, I’ll kill you, he says. The window is shut.

He points the gun up at the window and shoots. Glass breaks. The three Mexicans laugh harder, cheering him on. 

Shoot again, amigo. Let him have it. They don’t want us here. Fire again.

The old man comes to the window frame. Yells, I’m calling the cops. Get out of here. Better yet, I’ll kill you myself, he says.

Within seconds, the old man is back at the busted out window, aiming a shot gun at the three down below. They hide behind their pickups. The old man reloads and shoots again. Sirens are heard. Lights shine in the other windows. Nighttime is over.