I wrote Sonora Symphony some years ago and had it published by a house in Canada. We disagreed and I got the rights back three of four years ago.
Sonora Symphony
War's wounds healed by Papago medicine
CHAPTER ONE
The Marco Polo tour coach speeds west through the blackness of the desert night. The solid white ribbon on the right side of the pavement frequently flashes white and red from roadside reflectors.
Ray Daniels stares at the hypnotizing broken white line in the center of the highway. His empty eyes gaze into some place nobody else sees. The infrequent pinpricks of light in the distance announcing the rare presence of humanity do not register in his befuddled mind.
The bus stops at some place called Las Cruces. Ray rouses a bit to notice the driver gathering his things and removing a bag from the overhead compartment. Another driver steps in, greeting the man he's to replace with a happy, “Hola.” The new driver then checks the passengers, eyes opening a bit when he sees Ray, the only Gringo among eighteen Hispanics.
“Got on in Colorado Springs,” the first driver tells his relief, referring to Ray. “Got off with the rest in Albuquerque, but did not have anything but a glass of water.”
The new driver stares at Ray’s military-style jacket and shrugs. “Seems harmless to me.”
The fact they're speaking Spanish and he understands them doesn’t register as unusual with Ray.
After a timeless drive through the night, lights ahead reflect off the bottom of sparse clouds to announce a large city. A green sign that passes quickly indicates it to be South Tucson. The driver applies the engine brakes at the exact moment needed to reduce speed to veer onto the exit ramp, lightly applying the brake pedal to slow to a stop.
Ray’s hands grip the bar on the seat divider in front of him a little tighter.
The bright halogen lights from outside reveal the driver’s eyes examining Ray in the rearview mirror.
Ray blankly stares back.
A dozen or so big rigs are lined up in the truck stop’s parking area, and all eight pumps are occupied. Three passenger cars sit in front of the restaurant. The driver pulls into the spot marked for buses and opens the door. “Cuarenta-cinco minutos descanso,” he calls out, announcing a forty-five minute stop.
Seven passengers rise to gather their bags and boxes from the overhead compartments. The other ten make their way down the aisle to step off the bus, going inside the truck stop.
Ray doesn’t move.
Seeing the Anglo still in his seat, the driver comes back up the steps and leans towards Ray. “Hey, Sarge. You must get off here for a break. I have to lock the bus door.” The driver repeats himself and Ray rouses to gather up his small duffel bag from the seat and stand, slowly dismounting the bus steps.
“I will have them make an announcement when it is time to go.” The driver closes and locks the door. He walks inside, leaving Ray standing beside the bus.
Ray stands where he is for several minutes, staring down at the pavement. Without raising his head, he stalks forward, carefully placing each foot in front of the other in a precise military cadence. He searches the pavement for signs of recent patches—signs of improvised explosive devices.
A big triple-trailer rig pulls out of the fueling area, and the driver sounds the air horn to awaken the figure walking directly in front of him.
Ray doesn’t look up, continuing his march to nowhere.
The driver manages to slow so the pedestrian in his way passes unharmed.
Ray approaches the highway and strides ahead, looking neither right nor left.
A nerve-shattering sound fills the night when a speeding car’s horn blares. The driver slams on the brakes, followed by the urgent squeal of tires. He swerves and just misses the figure revealed in his headlights. He holds his hand down on the steering wheel button as he gains speed and turns onto the interstate.
A flashing blue, green, and yellow glow of neon lights comes from a vacant parking lot. Ray sees a sign announcing “Martin’s Diner - Open Day and Night.” He stops and looks around, aware for the first time that he doesn't know where he is.
Strange buzzing and crackling attracts Ray's attention and he looks up. A frenzy of swirling, tumbling insects surround the tall halogen lamps, other creatures swooping in to feast upon the tornado of life.
Ray turns to examine the small building.
It takes several minutes before he reaches out and opens the door. Ray steps inside and slowly moves forward, stopping at the sign that says, “Seat Yourself.”
When he just stands there, the waitress comes up and tells him, “Sit wherever you want. We aren’t exactly busy.”
Ray shyly smiles and makes his way to the first booth.
After setting his duffel bag on the seat and sliding in, Ray places his hands limply on the table top. He turns to stare out the window.
“Care to order anything?” The waitress places a glass of ice water in front of him, turns over his coffee cup, and fills it.
Ray blankly gazes at her, unsure of where he is or what she asked him. He turns back to look out the window without responding.
*****
The waitress shrugs and walks to the last booth against the window, refilling the coffee cup of the wizened old man sitting there. She grimaces. “He seems sober, Poppi.”
“Give him a few minutes, Hija. He may just be tired from the bus ride.” Joe Redmond watched the bus arrive. The truck stop serves as a transfer point for a number of bus lines catering to Mexicans and other Hispanics coming and going across the border. That’s why he was surprised to see the Anglo, wearing what appeared to be a military jacket, get off. He’d watched his progress across the lot and highway, wincing each time the man barely avoided injury or death.
The stranger didn’t stagger. His pace had been steady and measured. He moved as if seeking something on the ground ahead of each footstep. The way he moved brought a vague memory to Joe. “He's searching for land-mines,” Joe whispered.
And, now that he's close, Joe can see the man’s eyes. They should be the windows to his soul. But the blinds are closed.
Joe sighs. Those empty eyes strike a hammer blow to his gut.
Anna Maria sees her father wince and guesses he’s remembering an unpleasant time in his life. She sets the coffee carafe on the table and slides into the booth across from him, waiting for him to say something.
Joe never tells non-military types of his experiences serving in South Vietnam. Especially not his family. But, the man in the front booth awakens memories and he senses it is time to share a bit with his daughter. He reaches out for the cup in front of Anna Marie and turns it over, a sign he has something to tell her. She fills it and, when she sips a bit of the coffee, Joe speaks.
“Hija, you know I’ve never told you about my military service. But that man reminds me of something.”
Anna Maria smiles and reaches across to touch his hand. “You don’t need to if you don’t want to, Poppi.”
Joe returns the smile and starts.
“A Special Forces A-Team’s base camp not far from the village of A Xan in the central highlands of South Vietnam came under attack by a large group of North Vietnamese regulars. The team sent out an urgent call for help, and I went in on one of the five Hueys sent to relieve it. Four Cobra gun ships escorted us. When we got there, I jumped from the chopper, and there were bodies everywhere.”
Joe pauses, finding it hard to try to explain to his daughter the horror he faced. After sipping his coffee, he continues.
“I saw a Muong woman cradling her blood-drenched dead baby, swaying and keening in grief. A lone American GI stood at the door of the command bunker. He held a microphone with a dangling cord in one hand and an empty M-16 in the other. His eyes screamed of the horror he’d just seen.”
Joe inhales and nods towards the man in the front booth. “Forty years later, and that’s the exact same look I saw on that GI’s face.”
Anna Maria rises and leans over to kiss her father’s forehead before going back behind the counter.
“So, boy, what should I do?” Joe bends over and speaks to Gogs, his old hound lying on the floor next to the booth.
The dog’s tail thumps a couple of times before he puts his head back on his paws.
“The guy seems to have one heck of a problem. Maybe I ought to see if I can cheer him up. Give him the lay of the land.” Joe says to the hound - and himself.
The fact that he cares about the man surprises Joe. Up to that moment, he’d been deep within his own cesspool of sorrow for the loss of his beloved Maria Alondra to cancer. In a horribly short time, she’d gone from the lively, loving woman who’d been the center of his life for nearly forty years to an emaciated shell, slowly dying in agonizing pain. Nothing seemed able to stop it.
He spends time in the diner because he can’t stand to be alone in the home he and Maria Alondra had planned and built. His daughter carries herself the same, smiles the same, and has her mother’s moods. Joe understands her presence eases his sorrow...slightly. She too misses her mother, but has a husband and a son to look after - and now, a father.
Telling Gogs, “Stay!” Joe picks up his coffee cup and walks to the booth. “May I join you?”
The soldier slowly returns from his void and looks up at the voice. “Huh?” When Joe repeats the question, he shrugs and watches Joe slide into the seat across the table. He doesn’t display interest or disinterest.
“Hija, our guest’s coffee is cold.”
Anna Maria quickly brings a fresh cup of steaming coffee for the man and the decanter for her father. “Care to order?”
The man looks as blankly at her as he had at Joe. Anna Maria repeats and he responds with a shrug, muttering, “I don’t have any money.” To prove his point, he reaches into his pocket and lays some coins on the table. They don’t add up to more than a couple of dollars.
Joe wonders about that. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“I, uh, don’t know. Maybe yesterday,”
“Well, we’ll take care of that.” Joe cheerfully tells his daughter, “Bring this gentleman a deluxe breakfast, Hija.”
The man strains out of his lethargy to protest he can’t pay, mumbling, “I don’t want to impose.”
Joe waves that off. “You're military?” It's more of a statement than a question.
The man seeks an answer.
Joe quickly changes the subject, introducing himself. “Name’s Joe Redmond.” He offers his hand.
The soldier looks at the hand for a moment before lifting his from the table. Joe’s grip is surprisingly firm, and the man returns it with a sense of comfort. “Uh, name’s Ray.:
“So they tell me,” he softly adds.
Ray’s camouflaged jacket tells Joe a lot about him. One patch above a pocket announces US ARMY, while the other says “DANIELS.” Three chevrons and a rocker indicate the rank of staff sergeant, and a subdued patch on the left shoulder shows that he’d served in combat with the Eighty-Second Airborne Brigade in either Iraq or Afghanistan. The Fourth Infantry Division patch on the right shoulder signifies his current assignment.
The rest of his clothing confuses Joe. It appears that the outfit of sweats, athletic shoes, and wool skullcap were thrown together without regard for military protocol. What on earth is he doing here? There are no army bases for hundreds of miles. Joe faintly remembers that the Fourth is somewhere in Texas or Colorado.
Anna Maria arrives with a platter of eggs with a nice medium rare top sirloin steak, home fries, and toast. She also refills Ray’s coffee cup.
Ray peers at the plate for several seconds before tentatively lifting the fork to shove some eggs into his mouth. After the first bite, he comes alive, quickly digging in to satiate his hunger.
When Ray pauses eating to sip his coffee, Joe asks, “Where ya heading?”
The cup abruptly halts half way between his lips and the table. Ray’s brow furrows as if he's trying to form an answer. At last, he softly answers, “Don’t think I know.”
“Ya all right?” Joe's filled with deep concern. “You okay? Need medics or something?”
That causes the first real emotion Joe's seen on the sergeant’s face. Ray sits erect, anger flaring in his hazel eyes. “No dammit! No more medics. I’ve had my fill of ’em.”
He then nervously looks around, seeking something or someone.
“Relax,” Joe soothes. “No need to get upset. Just eat.”
Gogs had uncurled himself from the floor next to the corner booth and came over to sniff at his alpha male’s companion.
Ray absentmindedly puts the fork back on his plate and reaches down to gently rub behind the animal’s ears. “Nice hound. Think I had one once.”
Joe can see that Ray's having trouble dealing with the world about him. He’d obviously been badly hurt. And, knowing the military the way he does, Joe guesses they’d probably kept him cooped up in a hospital somewhere.
Ray calms and finishes eating, cleaning the plate and drinking another cup of coffee. He then fumbles in his pockets, searching for something. He's unaware of the meager pile of coins he’d placed on the table.
“I told ya not to worry. Breakfast’s on me.”
Ray’s eyes brighten briefly, and he appears to be ready to ask a question.
Anna Maria returns to fill their cups, so the question goes unasked.
“Has my father told you any of his stories yet?”
Ray turns his attention to her. “Uh, no. What stories?”
“Poppi, I’m ashamed of you. I was sure you would’ve at least told him one by now.”
Joe laughs. “Okay, Hija. I had to be polite and let him finish eating.” He turns to Ray and asks, “Care to hear one? My specialty is Indian stories.”
Ray shrugs. A spark of life fills his face.
“Well, Poppi, if you’re going to tell him a story, let me know now so I can join you.”
“So, hurry up, Hija,” Joe urges. He then turns to Ray. “It looks as if you had a question to ask. Care to let me know what it was?”
Ray looks at the elder for a moment and then shrugs. “Whatever it was is gone. Sorry.”
“No need to ever apologize to me.” Joe smiles.
After taking the dishes away, Anna Maria gets a cup for herself and sits next to her father.
Joe ponders for a moment. “Well, do you know anything about the Indians who live around here?” Seeing Ray’s blank look, Joe hastily says, “That’s okay. I can tell you all about that later.”
After gathering his thoughts, he speaks. “Here are a couple of short stories the Apache tell. They’re a bit different from ours, but’ll give you a taste.”
Sonora Symphony
War's wounds healed by Papago medicine
CHAPTER ONE
The Marco Polo tour coach speeds west through the blackness of the desert night. The solid white ribbon on the right side of the pavement frequently flashes white and red from roadside reflectors.
Ray Daniels stares at the hypnotizing broken white line in the center of the highway. His empty eyes gaze into some place nobody else sees. The infrequent pinpricks of light in the distance announcing the rare presence of humanity do not register in his befuddled mind.
The bus stops at some place called Las Cruces. Ray rouses a bit to notice the driver gathering his things and removing a bag from the overhead compartment. Another driver steps in, greeting the man he's to replace with a happy, “Hola.” The new driver then checks the passengers, eyes opening a bit when he sees Ray, the only Gringo among eighteen Hispanics.
“Got on in Colorado Springs,” the first driver tells his relief, referring to Ray. “Got off with the rest in Albuquerque, but did not have anything but a glass of water.”
The new driver stares at Ray’s military-style jacket and shrugs. “Seems harmless to me.”
The fact they're speaking Spanish and he understands them doesn’t register as unusual with Ray.
After a timeless drive through the night, lights ahead reflect off the bottom of sparse clouds to announce a large city. A green sign that passes quickly indicates it to be South Tucson. The driver applies the engine brakes at the exact moment needed to reduce speed to veer onto the exit ramp, lightly applying the brake pedal to slow to a stop.
Ray’s hands grip the bar on the seat divider in front of him a little tighter.
The bright halogen lights from outside reveal the driver’s eyes examining Ray in the rearview mirror.
Ray blankly stares back.
A dozen or so big rigs are lined up in the truck stop’s parking area, and all eight pumps are occupied. Three passenger cars sit in front of the restaurant. The driver pulls into the spot marked for buses and opens the door. “Cuarenta-cinco minutos descanso,” he calls out, announcing a forty-five minute stop.
Seven passengers rise to gather their bags and boxes from the overhead compartments. The other ten make their way down the aisle to step off the bus, going inside the truck stop.
Ray doesn’t move.
Seeing the Anglo still in his seat, the driver comes back up the steps and leans towards Ray. “Hey, Sarge. You must get off here for a break. I have to lock the bus door.” The driver repeats himself and Ray rouses to gather up his small duffel bag from the seat and stand, slowly dismounting the bus steps.
“I will have them make an announcement when it is time to go.” The driver closes and locks the door. He walks inside, leaving Ray standing beside the bus.
Ray stands where he is for several minutes, staring down at the pavement. Without raising his head, he stalks forward, carefully placing each foot in front of the other in a precise military cadence. He searches the pavement for signs of recent patches—signs of improvised explosive devices.
A big triple-trailer rig pulls out of the fueling area, and the driver sounds the air horn to awaken the figure walking directly in front of him.
Ray doesn’t look up, continuing his march to nowhere.
The driver manages to slow so the pedestrian in his way passes unharmed.
Ray approaches the highway and strides ahead, looking neither right nor left.
A nerve-shattering sound fills the night when a speeding car’s horn blares. The driver slams on the brakes, followed by the urgent squeal of tires. He swerves and just misses the figure revealed in his headlights. He holds his hand down on the steering wheel button as he gains speed and turns onto the interstate.
A flashing blue, green, and yellow glow of neon lights comes from a vacant parking lot. Ray sees a sign announcing “Martin’s Diner - Open Day and Night.” He stops and looks around, aware for the first time that he doesn't know where he is.
Strange buzzing and crackling attracts Ray's attention and he looks up. A frenzy of swirling, tumbling insects surround the tall halogen lamps, other creatures swooping in to feast upon the tornado of life.
Ray turns to examine the small building.
It takes several minutes before he reaches out and opens the door. Ray steps inside and slowly moves forward, stopping at the sign that says, “Seat Yourself.”
When he just stands there, the waitress comes up and tells him, “Sit wherever you want. We aren’t exactly busy.”
Ray shyly smiles and makes his way to the first booth.
After setting his duffel bag on the seat and sliding in, Ray places his hands limply on the table top. He turns to stare out the window.
“Care to order anything?” The waitress places a glass of ice water in front of him, turns over his coffee cup, and fills it.
Ray blankly gazes at her, unsure of where he is or what she asked him. He turns back to look out the window without responding.
*****
The waitress shrugs and walks to the last booth against the window, refilling the coffee cup of the wizened old man sitting there. She grimaces. “He seems sober, Poppi.”
“Give him a few minutes, Hija. He may just be tired from the bus ride.” Joe Redmond watched the bus arrive. The truck stop serves as a transfer point for a number of bus lines catering to Mexicans and other Hispanics coming and going across the border. That’s why he was surprised to see the Anglo, wearing what appeared to be a military jacket, get off. He’d watched his progress across the lot and highway, wincing each time the man barely avoided injury or death.
The stranger didn’t stagger. His pace had been steady and measured. He moved as if seeking something on the ground ahead of each footstep. The way he moved brought a vague memory to Joe. “He's searching for land-mines,” Joe whispered.
And, now that he's close, Joe can see the man’s eyes. They should be the windows to his soul. But the blinds are closed.
Joe sighs. Those empty eyes strike a hammer blow to his gut.
Anna Maria sees her father wince and guesses he’s remembering an unpleasant time in his life. She sets the coffee carafe on the table and slides into the booth across from him, waiting for him to say something.
Joe never tells non-military types of his experiences serving in South Vietnam. Especially not his family. But, the man in the front booth awakens memories and he senses it is time to share a bit with his daughter. He reaches out for the cup in front of Anna Marie and turns it over, a sign he has something to tell her. She fills it and, when she sips a bit of the coffee, Joe speaks.
“Hija, you know I’ve never told you about my military service. But that man reminds me of something.”
Anna Maria smiles and reaches across to touch his hand. “You don’t need to if you don’t want to, Poppi.”
Joe returns the smile and starts.
“A Special Forces A-Team’s base camp not far from the village of A Xan in the central highlands of South Vietnam came under attack by a large group of North Vietnamese regulars. The team sent out an urgent call for help, and I went in on one of the five Hueys sent to relieve it. Four Cobra gun ships escorted us. When we got there, I jumped from the chopper, and there were bodies everywhere.”
Joe pauses, finding it hard to try to explain to his daughter the horror he faced. After sipping his coffee, he continues.
“I saw a Muong woman cradling her blood-drenched dead baby, swaying and keening in grief. A lone American GI stood at the door of the command bunker. He held a microphone with a dangling cord in one hand and an empty M-16 in the other. His eyes screamed of the horror he’d just seen.”
Joe inhales and nods towards the man in the front booth. “Forty years later, and that’s the exact same look I saw on that GI’s face.”
Anna Maria rises and leans over to kiss her father’s forehead before going back behind the counter.
“So, boy, what should I do?” Joe bends over and speaks to Gogs, his old hound lying on the floor next to the booth.
The dog’s tail thumps a couple of times before he puts his head back on his paws.
“The guy seems to have one heck of a problem. Maybe I ought to see if I can cheer him up. Give him the lay of the land.” Joe says to the hound - and himself.
The fact that he cares about the man surprises Joe. Up to that moment, he’d been deep within his own cesspool of sorrow for the loss of his beloved Maria Alondra to cancer. In a horribly short time, she’d gone from the lively, loving woman who’d been the center of his life for nearly forty years to an emaciated shell, slowly dying in agonizing pain. Nothing seemed able to stop it.
He spends time in the diner because he can’t stand to be alone in the home he and Maria Alondra had planned and built. His daughter carries herself the same, smiles the same, and has her mother’s moods. Joe understands her presence eases his sorrow...slightly. She too misses her mother, but has a husband and a son to look after - and now, a father.
Telling Gogs, “Stay!” Joe picks up his coffee cup and walks to the booth. “May I join you?”
The soldier slowly returns from his void and looks up at the voice. “Huh?” When Joe repeats the question, he shrugs and watches Joe slide into the seat across the table. He doesn’t display interest or disinterest.
“Hija, our guest’s coffee is cold.”
Anna Maria quickly brings a fresh cup of steaming coffee for the man and the decanter for her father. “Care to order?”
The man looks as blankly at her as he had at Joe. Anna Maria repeats and he responds with a shrug, muttering, “I don’t have any money.” To prove his point, he reaches into his pocket and lays some coins on the table. They don’t add up to more than a couple of dollars.
Joe wonders about that. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“I, uh, don’t know. Maybe yesterday,”
“Well, we’ll take care of that.” Joe cheerfully tells his daughter, “Bring this gentleman a deluxe breakfast, Hija.”
The man strains out of his lethargy to protest he can’t pay, mumbling, “I don’t want to impose.”
Joe waves that off. “You're military?” It's more of a statement than a question.
The man seeks an answer.
Joe quickly changes the subject, introducing himself. “Name’s Joe Redmond.” He offers his hand.
The soldier looks at the hand for a moment before lifting his from the table. Joe’s grip is surprisingly firm, and the man returns it with a sense of comfort. “Uh, name’s Ray.:
“So they tell me,” he softly adds.
Ray’s camouflaged jacket tells Joe a lot about him. One patch above a pocket announces US ARMY, while the other says “DANIELS.” Three chevrons and a rocker indicate the rank of staff sergeant, and a subdued patch on the left shoulder shows that he’d served in combat with the Eighty-Second Airborne Brigade in either Iraq or Afghanistan. The Fourth Infantry Division patch on the right shoulder signifies his current assignment.
The rest of his clothing confuses Joe. It appears that the outfit of sweats, athletic shoes, and wool skullcap were thrown together without regard for military protocol. What on earth is he doing here? There are no army bases for hundreds of miles. Joe faintly remembers that the Fourth is somewhere in Texas or Colorado.
Anna Maria arrives with a platter of eggs with a nice medium rare top sirloin steak, home fries, and toast. She also refills Ray’s coffee cup.
Ray peers at the plate for several seconds before tentatively lifting the fork to shove some eggs into his mouth. After the first bite, he comes alive, quickly digging in to satiate his hunger.
When Ray pauses eating to sip his coffee, Joe asks, “Where ya heading?”
The cup abruptly halts half way between his lips and the table. Ray’s brow furrows as if he's trying to form an answer. At last, he softly answers, “Don’t think I know.”
“Ya all right?” Joe's filled with deep concern. “You okay? Need medics or something?”
That causes the first real emotion Joe's seen on the sergeant’s face. Ray sits erect, anger flaring in his hazel eyes. “No dammit! No more medics. I’ve had my fill of ’em.”
He then nervously looks around, seeking something or someone.
“Relax,” Joe soothes. “No need to get upset. Just eat.”
Gogs had uncurled himself from the floor next to the corner booth and came over to sniff at his alpha male’s companion.
Ray absentmindedly puts the fork back on his plate and reaches down to gently rub behind the animal’s ears. “Nice hound. Think I had one once.”
Joe can see that Ray's having trouble dealing with the world about him. He’d obviously been badly hurt. And, knowing the military the way he does, Joe guesses they’d probably kept him cooped up in a hospital somewhere.
Ray calms and finishes eating, cleaning the plate and drinking another cup of coffee. He then fumbles in his pockets, searching for something. He's unaware of the meager pile of coins he’d placed on the table.
“I told ya not to worry. Breakfast’s on me.”
Ray’s eyes brighten briefly, and he appears to be ready to ask a question.
Anna Maria returns to fill their cups, so the question goes unasked.
“Has my father told you any of his stories yet?”
Ray turns his attention to her. “Uh, no. What stories?”
“Poppi, I’m ashamed of you. I was sure you would’ve at least told him one by now.”
Joe laughs. “Okay, Hija. I had to be polite and let him finish eating.” He turns to Ray and asks, “Care to hear one? My specialty is Indian stories.”
Ray shrugs. A spark of life fills his face.
“Well, Poppi, if you’re going to tell him a story, let me know now so I can join you.”
“So, hurry up, Hija,” Joe urges. He then turns to Ray. “It looks as if you had a question to ask. Care to let me know what it was?”
Ray looks at the elder for a moment and then shrugs. “Whatever it was is gone. Sorry.”
“No need to ever apologize to me.” Joe smiles.
After taking the dishes away, Anna Maria gets a cup for herself and sits next to her father.
Joe ponders for a moment. “Well, do you know anything about the Indians who live around here?” Seeing Ray’s blank look, Joe hastily says, “That’s okay. I can tell you all about that later.”
After gathering his thoughts, he speaks. “Here are a couple of short stories the Apache tell. They’re a bit different from ours, but’ll give you a taste.”
