Cooper
Cooper texted when he landed.
“Just touched down, mate. Heading to the Airbnb now.”
The Tourist was at his apartment in Laureles. Heat pressing in. Fan rattling. He’d been working at his desk for three hours.
“Nice man. Let me know when you’re checked in.”
Thirty minutes later, his phone buzzed again.
“All good. Come by whenever.”
He grabbed his keys. Walked out.
Cooper’s building was ten minutes away. Modern. Clean lines. Glass entrance. A concierge desk visible through the front doors.
You could tell it cost real money but didn’t advertise it.
The Tourist stepped inside.
The concierge looked up. Mid-forties. White collared shirt. Black tie. Professional.
“Buenas tardes,” the Tourist said.
“Buenas. ¿A quién visita?”
He pulled out his phone. “Uh… Cooper. Apartamento 9C?”
The concierge slid a clipboard across the desk. A visitor log. Name. Passport number. Signature. Time.
He filled it out. Handed it back.
The concierge nodded toward the elevators.
“Piso nueve.”
Ninth floor.
The elevator was smooth. Quiet. Nothing like the narrow staircase in his own building.
He stepped out onto the ninth floor.
The hallway was dark. Motion sensors, probably. But they didn’t trigger.
He pulled out his phone, switched on the flashlight, and used it like a torch to find Cooper’s door number in the dim light.
Found it.
Knocked.
From inside, a voice. Loud. Australian accent thick.
“Ohhh, that must be him!”
Footsteps. The door swung open.
Cooper stood there grinning. Taller than expected. Built. Tank top. Gym shorts. Barefoot.
“What’s up, bro!” Cooper said, already laughing.
“Good to finally meet you, man!”
They clasped hands. Pulled into a quick bro hug. Backslap. The kind of greeting that felt natural even though they’d never been in the same room before.
Cooper stepped aside.
“Come on in, mate!”
The apartment was clean. Open concept. Kitchen to the right. Living area straight ahead. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city. Hills rising on both sides. The valley spread out below.
Not massive. But nice. The kind of place the Tourist could have afforded but hadn’t bothered with.
“This is solid, man,” the Tourist said.
“Yeah, not bad, eh? Rooftop gym upstairs. Figured I’d use it.”
Of course he would.
The Tourist sat on the couch. Cooper sat across from him in an office chair, leaned back. He cracked open a bottle of water. Offered one. The Tourist accepted.
Ten minutes in, it was already easy.
No awkwardness. No performing. Just two guys who’d been talking online for six months finally in the same room.
“You know what’s funny?” Cooper said.
“What?”
“You’re actually who I thought you’d be.”
The Tourist laughed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. That doesn’t always work out. Meeting people from online.”
“Honestly, I was thinking the same thing.”
Cooper grinned. “Good. That makes this easier.”
They talked for a bit. Work. The flight. Australia. Canada. Medellín so far.
Then Cooper asked about grocery stores.
“There’s a good one like two blocks away,” the Tourist said. “You can get everything there… ground beef, or—what is it—carne molida? If you’re cooking back here.”
He said it like an American. Flat. No rolled R.
Carney molida.
Like people at a carnival.
Cooper’s eyebrows went up. Then he started laughing.
“Mate. You mean carne.” He rolled the R. Clean. Proper. “Not Carney.”
The Tourist blinked. “Wait, you speak Spanish?”
“A bit. My dad’s Spanish. Grew up hearing it.”
“Oh, shit. I had no idea. That’s gonna be helpful.”
Cooper was still grinning. “How do you get by, mate? Your Spanish is…”
“Terrible?”
“I was gonna say nonexistent.”
The Tourist laughed. “Honestly, mostly Google Translate.”
“Fair enough.”
They sat there for another few minutes. Then Cooper stood.
“Alright. I’m starving. Where should we eat?”
The Tourist thought about it.
“I know a good spot,” he said. “Street vendor on La 70. They make a solid shawarma. I went there one of my first nights here.”
“Shawarma sounds perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s do it.”
They left the building a few minutes later. Said something to the concierge on the way out—Cooper in Spanish, clean and confident. The concierge smiled. Nodded.
Outside, the sun was still bright. Late afternoon. Maybe 4:30, 5:00.
The heat hit them immediately.
They turned right. Walked down the side street.
Mechanic shops lined the block. One of them more like a car wash—water running onto the sidewalk, pooling in the cracks. They stepped around it. Kept walking.
The sidewalk wasn’t really a sidewalk. Just space between the shops and the street. The mechanics had claimed most of it. Tools. Tires. A guy leaning under the hood of a truck, half his body disappearing into the engine.
They passed a food stall. A T-shirt shop with Medellín tourist merch hanging in the window. Emerald green. Paisa slogans.
Two minutes later, they hit La 70.
Busy. Loud. Street vendors everywhere. Chicharrón. Empanadas. Fresh juice in plastic cups. Restaurants with open fronts. Bars already filling.
The shawarma spot was halfway down the block.
A grill set up on the sidewalk. Four guys working it. Smoke rising. Meat turning on the spit.
One of the guys saw them coming. Grabbed two plastic stools. Set them down. Handed over menus.
The stools looked like they might collapse.
They sat anyway.
The Tourist pointed at the menu.
“I had this one last time,” he said. “Chicken, beef, pork. Mixto. It’s good.”
“Alright, I’ll get the same.”
“Thirty thousand pesos. Like ten bucks Canadian.”
Cooper nodded. “Pretty much the same as Aussie dollars, I think.”
They ordered.
While they waited, a group of girls walked past.
One of the guys at the grill looked up.
“Ay, gordita!” he called out. “¿Quieres comer?”
The girls kept walking. Didn’t even look back.
A minute later, another girl. Alone. Tight jeans. Headphones in.
“Flaca, flaca, flaca!” the same guy yelled. Grinning.
She glanced over. Smiled faintly. Kept walking.
The Tourist started laughing.
“Man,” he said. “This would never happen in Canada. You call a girl fat on the street? It’s not gonna end well.”
Cooper was already cracking up. “Same in Australia, mate. You’d get destroyed.”
“Right? But here it’s just… normal.”
“Different world.”
The shawarmas arrived.
Wrapped in foil. Enormous. Sauce already leaking out the bottom.
They unwrapped them. Took bites.
Hot. Greasy. Perfect.
Cooper chewed. Swallowed. Nodded.
“Yeah, this is good.”
“Right?”
“Might just get these after the gym.”
The Tourist grinned. Of course Cooper was already planning gym sessions.
They kept eating. Sauce dripping. Wraps falling apart in their hands. Napkins doing nothing.
By the end, their fingers were covered.
They cleaned up. Licked their fingers. Wiped down with more napkins.
Cooper leaned back on his stool.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m sold. Medellín’s great.”
The Tourist laughed. “Yeah. It’s something.”
They stood. Paid. Thirty thousand pesos each.
They started walking back.
La 70 moved around them. Music from a bar. A vendor selling mango slices with lime and chili. Motorbikes weaving through traffic.
They turned off the main strip.
A man stood outside a bar with a pink neon sign on the left, waving them down, a stack of flyers in hand.
“Chicas, chicas,” he called out.
The Tourist shook his head. “No gracias.” Smiled once, and picked up his pace.
Back onto the quieter side street. Past the same mechanic shops. The same car wash.
Cooper’s building came into view.
They stopped outside the entrance.
“Alright, man,” the Tourist said. “I’ll let you settle in.”
“Yeah. Thanks for coming by, bro.”
They clasped hands, bumped shoulders.
“There’s a café I need to show you,” the Tourist said. “Not too far from here. We can work there tomorrow if you want.”
“Sounds good, mate.”
“Cool. I’ll text you.”
Cooper headed inside. The Tourist turned. Walked back toward his own apartment.
The heat hadn’t dropped. The street still hummed with life.
But something felt lighter.
Cooper was here.
Someone who didn’t know about the KFC girls. The white hotel. The deaths Valentina was tracking.
Someone who just saw Medellín the way it looked in photos.
And for now, the Tourist could let him.