By Amy Silverman
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By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
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By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
I tried not to look scared. It didn't work. The pollerto kept smiling.
"Oh," he said, looking at the knife as if he was surprised to suddenly find a blade in his hand. "Is this scaring you? No problem." He passed it to the old man, who let it fall in his lap.
"You're a problem," he said. "Who are you? Why are you here, asking questions?"
I told him I was just a tourist.
"This is not a place for tourists," he said. "There are no tourists here."
I told him he was right. Obviously, I'd made a mistake. He nodded and kept smiling. I stood up with my beer, wished the old man good luck, and walked away.
As I slid into a taxi, I noticed a new bus had pulled into the station. The "Futura" line 3 o'clock from Ciudad Obregón. The company's slogan was painted on the side: Bienvenidos a la Futura!
Welcome to the future.
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