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finally kicked it sometime while I was dead myself. I wondered if we toasted beers in hell. I paused with a frown, the manifestation of change sinking in.
    As I stood, the scent of marinated beef and toasted bread caught my nose. It was instantly recognizable. My stomach growled. For some reason, I was ravenous. I kept my head down, pulled out a small wad of cash, and stepped up to the sidewalk counter.
    I ordered. " Un cafecito y un pan con bistec, por favor. " The old lady smiled and placed a shot of Cuban coffee in front of me. It was served in a tiny disposable cup, like something you'd put ketchup in.
    If ever there was a nectar of the gods, this was it. It's not American coffee, and it certainly isn't your typical Starbucks espresso. Cuban coffee is dark, strong, and bitter. Add a metric fuck-ton of sugar and stir until a rich cream froths the top and you have lightning in a paper cup. It made the waiting easier.
    When my sandwich came, I was in heaven. A marinated steak sandwich, screw sauce, because it's meat and it's for tasting. For crunch, it's stuffed with loads of potato sticks. And the bread... Cuban bread is a thing of art. On the outside it looks like French bread except smoother. On the inside, it's a whole other story. It's lighter, fluffier, and soft to the touch, perfect for squeezing on a flat press into a sandwich. It gets stale in two minutes flat if left in the open air, but my sandwich didn't last that long. It tasted so good I knew I wasn't dead anymore. Yeah, a real existential experience.
    I popped a cone-shaped paper cup from a dispenser on the wall and filled it from a water jug. I needed to cleanse my palette and digest. Or maybe I was stalling. Having something familiar like this meal was incredibly comforting. I desperately wanted to be in the company of my parents and little sister again. But faced with the possibility, I had no idea what I would tell them.
    Mind you, the benefits of being an animist aren't easily explained. It's not something I can chat on the phone about with the extended family in Cuba. My sister never minded, but my parents didn't think the dark arts had any future. In the end, maybe they were right. I had gotten killed, after all.
    I gulped down the miniscule amount of water and crushed the cup in my hands. Regret wasn't my style. I was a seat-of-the-pants kinda guy. Live in the moment. And that's what I was now: alive, for the moment.
    A famous poet once said, "Seize the day. Put little trust in tomorrow." Well, that's why I was here. I tossed the cup in the basura , left my change on the counter as a tip, and headed down the block.
    Off Flagler, the businesses gave way to apartments and duplexes, then private housing. Cracked sidewalks and paved driveways, tiny lots with multiple cars out front. My destination snuck up on me and I was at the chain-link fence before I noticed. The house was in bad shape. Yellow paint flaked off the walls. The security bars were faded from the sun. This was a far cry from the Versace Mansion, but it was my home.
    The first odd thing I noticed was the "Beware of Dog" sign wired to the fence. We didn't have a dog and there wasn't one in sight. I fought off a frown when I considered my absence. My dad had a bad back and my mom and sister wouldn't be able to fend off a burglar. Without me around, it was likely they got a dog for protection. Even more likely, they just put up the sign in a feeble attempt at security.
    The Mustang parked on the street was new too. There was no telling who it belonged to, but it was parked up to the fence like the driver owned the place. My sister could have gotten new car. I peeked inside. A pair of women's panties hung from the rearview mirror.
    Uh, sister and I might need to have a conversation. I shook my head and smiled, then unhinged the gate and approached the door.
    It struck me that I didn't have my keys. I patted my pockets out of habit anyway. The front door was open but the metal security door was