"It's hot...humid. Packed with jungles and deserts and a long coastline, port cities and old buildings."

He thinks it would be difficult and winding to explain the orphanage in Boston, the departure when he was twelve, an extensive life on the road, and frankly, she hasn't exactly earned the candor. Half-truths flow a lot freer from the source when he's unencumbered by a stranger knowing his reputation. Her world probably doesn't have a Colombia, or a Panama, or a Mexico, so what does it matter that he abridges a few things?

What did you do is somewhat more complicated, but- Honestly, fuck it. He can make it sound as romantically impossible as he wants, when the truth is stranger than fiction. Nate rubs his thumb idly against his glass.

"I was a thief."