Fugitive

Jim Dwyer's story (Thanks, Craig): "Orlando."

In a dim, nearly deserted Everglades farm stand, nothing moved.

Orlando Boquete, hybrid of youth and age — his body springy and athletic at 52, but knitted to a startlingly ancient head — peered at the stalls through thick eyeglasses.

Other than a faint buzz, the shimmer of heat trapped in a tin roof, the word “Orlando” was the only sound.

An impatient companion called to him.

“Orlando. Hey, Orlando.”