He was young. Or old. His hair was the color of bone— Zorro Blanco , the children whispered—not gray with age, but white as if the sun had leached every other color from it. He wore a coat of cracked leather and a hat so wide its shadow swallowed his eyes. But his eyes… those who dared look said they were not brown or black, but the color of the sky just before lightning strikes.
The sun rose like a copper coin fresh from the forge. By mid-morning, the dust on the Camino Real had turned to fine, pale ash. By noon, the chickens lay panting in their own shadows, and the river—the crooked, stubborn river that had never once gone dry—shrunk to a brown string of mud. Caluroso Verano -Trilogia Origi - Zorro Blanco....
The summer came not with a breeze but with a held breath. He was young