Three months later

Outside a small, Arizona town, a few few miles outside of the town, sat a lone bar, void of any vehicle except two. A 1995 blue Chevy pickup truck and a small, two door, grey Chevy. The outside of the bar itself looked as though someone didn't have the time, nor the money, to keep up with the repairs that it needed. The shingles on the roof of the entrance were sparse, save the few that were still dangling from their nails.

The patio that was attached was nearly empty, a few barrels here and there for patrons to set their drinks on when they went outside to smoke. Despite the dry dirt that surrounded the bar, there was evidence that littered the ground, ash from the cigarettes, and the buds from them, lay scattered. A sign that hung above the bar looked much more cherished than the outside of the bar. It was much more clean and taken care of than even the dusty windows.

"Ramone's Dine and Bar", it said in neon red and blue lights... Well, if it was dark. The sign was off and the Arizona sun was shining bright and hot for the day. Many people wished that they would get rain, but unfortunately it was to be hot for the week.

The weather mattered not for two, however, as they were inside the airconditioned bar, preparing for the night's patrons that would come. The air outside was still, quiet and humid until the shattering of glass echoed outside. The reason for the glass, a large beer mug, to shatter, was already on her knees in the bar, picking up big pieces to throw away first.

***
" Damn... " The low voice of a young woman, whose voice hinted at a small southern accent, muttered under her breath, hissing slightly in pain as she looked at a small cut that formed on her right hand from a glass shard.

"Saraphina, what happened this time?" A male voice called in concern from the kitchens, this one sounding much more older, as it held a slight whistling exhale when he spoke, likely the loss of a few teeth here and there. Whether from aging or picking fights in his younger years, no one would know just yet. The male's voice held more of an accent, a foreign one at that.

"My hand slipped, Ramone, nothing that can't be replaced." The Young woman, Saraphina, as she was named, reassured Ramone, as she sighed, wiping her bleeding hand on her dusty blue jeans while still holding the large glass shards in the opposite hand, and reminded herself to sweep the wooden floors thoroughly before opening the bar for the night. She stood, the top of her head nearly reaching the third shelf holding the alcohol Ramone normally served the patrons.

Saraphina was a tall woman for her age, standing at a height of 5'9". Many women who came to the bar often envied over the fact that she had such an advantage over them, but she was reserved enough that she never used her height to get her point across. Ramone does the intimidating all on his own. It helped that She was often quiet during her shifts in the bar, too.

She stepped over the glass pile to get to a trash bin at the end of the counter, tossing the large pieces away before grabbing a broom and dustpan. As she turned back towards the pile of glass, she could hear footsteps behind her and a soft sigh.

"It happened again, then?" The same voice spoke sadly, his accent much more prominent as Saraphina turned towards an older man, part of her body still facing the pile, who looked as though time was not easy on him.

Ramone was a 72 year old man and was not easy for others to look at, not if you knew him well enough, at least. He had a slight bald spot close to the top of his head with his hair greying to an almost off white color. His left eye was foggy, as a jagged scar ran from the top of his eyebrow to the bottom of his eye, a nasty fight that he had gotten into when he was in his early twenties. While the other was a hazel color, often looking green in certain lighting.

He had one blind eye, but let it show, wanting people to know that he wouldn't be stopped by one blind eye. He was short as well, not quite built as he had been in his prime years, now he was slightly rounded in the middle and much more sustainable to injury than he had before. He often reminded Saraphina of a foreign Mafia boss, from movies she'd watch when he went to town for supplies, with his accent and look. Ramone also had a limp on his left hip after a car accident some time ago, before he knew Saraphina.

Saraphina sighed, turning towards the pile completely, silent for the moment.

"This time it was a woman," She started, beginning to sweep the pile into the dustpan in her hand, "I don't think it was my mom, though. She was wearing a lab coat, but she was kind to me. When she was with me, I felt safe. Another doctor, a man, had walked in, though it was like my mind didn't want me to remember him yet..." She spoke quietly, though knew Ramone could head her just fine, despite his age.

"Why do you say that?" Ramone questioned in curiosity, as he walked, more or less limped, over to take the broom to make it easier.

Saraphina looked up slightly, having gotten on a knee to sweep up the pile, and looked into Ramone's one good eye.

"His face was blurred out. Like those old pictures you've shown me? The voice was like static, too. It reminded me of when you wouldn't get any signal in town on certain days and the radio was just static. None of the man was familiar, but when he stepped into the room with the woman and I... All I could feel was fear. Something about that man terrified me.. Yet I still can't remember." She hissed the last sentence out in frustration, having that she had no memory of her past.

She had been very lucky to stumble across Ramone when she had in the Arizona desert three years ago. She had been dehydrated, starved, beaten and weak, but had no memory of how she got to the dry land. She remembers the first time meeting Ramone, driving up in his pickup truck, loaded with supplies, stopping just ahead on the highway she had stumbled across. Unlike other people, who just drove by, Ramone wanted to make sure she was alright.

"I did get a name, though. On her lab coat was a name card." Saraphina spoke timidly after going silent for a short period of time.

"A name?" Ramone pressed, sweeping the last bit of glass and dirt into the dustpan, leaning against it for support to take pressure off his hip.

"Yeah, a name.." Saraphina sighed softly, standing to throw away the dirt and glass.

"Well. What was it?" Ramone huffed, his patience quick to leave him when it came to Saraphina's memories.

They rarely happened, as she rarely had anything to spark any sort of memory to surface, but sometimes the old man often wondered if, subconsciously, the poor girl didn't want to remember what had happened to her. He's heard from some people that some amnesia cases often happened that way,but left their first name as a small bread crumb if the person wanted to try and remember. In Saraphina's case, it seemed that her mind was slowly kickstarting into the path of memory lane. It made him wonder why it was choosing start now, when it has the past three years to start. He may never know.

Saraphina turned towards Ramone, a pained and sorrowful expression looking in his direction.

"Tatiana Ramirez... I thought you said your niece disappeared?" She asked, furrowing her brows as her face scrunched up in confusion.

Ramone, hearing his niece's name, stood straight, looking towards the clock above them, and sighed shakily, not quite ready to talk about yet.

"We'll talk about this some other time, Sara." He said calmly, not looking at her quite yet.

Saraphina looked away from Ramone, nodding. "Alright... But you will tell me, right?" She asked finally, looking towards him and held the expression of a child hanging onto the words of their parents that had said that they would buy that amazing toy they'd always wanted.

Ramone looked towards her with a nod. "Some day." He agreed.

***

It was after Seven and the bar was bustling with noise. The Arizona sun had gone down, taking the heat with it, and bringing in the evening air, which was a relief to all who spent their day out in the blistering heat. The parking lot was nearly full of Harley Davidson's, a few trucks here and there as well to change the scenery. Few bikers were leant against their rides talking and smoking when they heard another motorcycle pull in, catching their attention.

They knew every rider here in town, and even from a town over, but they didn't know this one. As the stranger pulled into a vacant space, right beside the grey Chevy, one of the bikers, Bull, as some of his friends knew him by considering he was taller and larger than the rest of them, had walked over, eying the bike.

"Nice bike, but we don't take kindly to strangers abound these parts." Bull stated firmly, as a thick southern accent escaped him.

The stranger didn't even look up at him, just passing him with a few words.

"Just passing through." The stranger had said, before stepping into the bar.