Brisket and Bad Decisions

I pull into Fifth and Brazos at quarter to six, same as I have every morning for the last three years, and there's a truck in my spot.

Not just any truck. A gleaming silver Airstream with a smoker bolted to the back, chrome so shiny I can see the sunrise in it. The kind of setup that costs more than my entire year's rent. And parked dead center in the corner I've claimed since the day I bought Mañanita with my last credit card and a prayer to every saint Abuela keeps on her dashboard.

I sit there with my engine idling, staring at the back of this bastard's truck like if I glare hard enough it'll evaporate. It doesn't.

The side hatch is already open. Smoke curls out of the chimney—mesquite, I can smell it from here—and there's a chalkboard menu propped against the curb. Neat block letters. Low & Slow BBQ. Brisket tacos $8. Burnt ends $10.

Eight dollars. For a taco.

I throw Mañanita into park so hard the whole truck shudders, grab my phone, and text Abuela.

Some pendejo stole my spot.

Her reply is instant. Did you fight him?

Working on it.

I shove my door open and drop onto the asphalt, boots hitting pavement like I'm stepping into a ring. The air smells like smoke and charred meat and something sweet—brown sugar, maybe peach wood. My stomach growls. I ignore it.