A/N: Here we go. Let's go find him. Thanks for waiting. My life has turned upside down (in a good way). I love you for reading and making it this far (just like Bella and Jess). Thanks! Happy Halloween. titsoak. and all that. xoxox

..::.. Epilogue - Chapter 1 ..::..

The colors are exceptional. Home is dim in comparison. Locals rush about. Shorts, sandals, bright clothing, tan skin under a beaming sun. Merchant labor in the busy markets. Fruits and vegetables lined up with the mountains as a backdrop.

I wipe the sweat off my neck. Mosquitoes are relentless. My plate with crumbs of rice in coconut sauce lingering from the filet I ate despite the churning nerves. Nothing like I've ever tried before.

My fingertips rub over the local paper left on my table. News about shipments, agriculture and life, no crimes. Why would there be? This is a polar opposite world. This is peace … and heat and vibrant colors.

Opportunities available.

Limitless potential.

I stare at the composition on the newsprint, the photograph of the ocean, the fishing boat, and the bounties fishermen find in their catch. The headline says how lucky they've been this season. But the name etched in small letters on the bottom, right under the photo, piques my interest. I fold up the paper, stuff it neatly in my bag, and look out to the shore under the cabana of the restaurant.

I wait for it.

The same as yesterday. A truck rolls in, it beeps when it backs up by the side of the restaurant, where the new catch is stored for the next batch of cooking. Patrons mingle here as workers do the daily grind accepting the shipment—and that tall tanned man among them. Not nearly the rich skin tone of locals, but enough sun to change him and lighten his hair.

I watch them work, sweat over their brows. Hats whipped off their foreheads to wipe them quickly with the back of their callused hands. And off they go to another hotel or restaurant after unloading.

In the evening I see him. The bar is full, inside and outside where I stand, and the towel on his shoulder is intact as he carries in crates of liquor. A guy gives him orders. He lines the clean beer glasses next and fills the ice bucket for the next round of orders. He must bus a few tables, wipe them clean with the towel. He takes his time, with purpose, and I can see why. On his break, he limps back to the alley toward the bed of a truck and eats his dinner out of a Styrofoam container. Fingernails stained, sweat at his brows and neck. A shiny nose is bright under the outdoor light close by, tanned from the sun exposure during the daytime.

I take the last sip of my drink, then I leave a tip for the busboy before I go. I'm far when he slowly makes his way to my vacant table with the towel.

A wipe, a curious hand finding cash tucked under the glass. A few fingers hesitantly stuffing the folded bills in a shirt pocket.

...