My heart dropped.
The cashier noticed it too. Her smile faded, her posture stiffened. She barely made eye contact as she rang him up. The man didn’t say a word—just slid his cash across the counter and walked out without looking back.
When the door closed behind him, the cashier let out a shaky breath.
“You know what that tattoo means, right?” she whispered.
I shook my head.
“It’s called mi vida loca,” she said. “My crazy life. People tied to gangs, prison time… or worse. It’s not always criminal, but when it shows up on the hand like that?” She swallowed. “Let’s just say it’s usually a warning.”
I stepped outside carefully, half expecting him to still be there.
He was gone.
But the feeling stayed with me—how a tiny symbol, just three dots, could hold an entire story most people never want to hear.
