A strange man came to the laundromat today. The other women said he was the owner, a man by the name of Gustavo Fring. He had an unusual air about him, soft-spoken, unsmiling, and...I want to say cold. He was somewhat short and thin, flawlessly dressed in a neat suit and tie, with wire-rimmed glasses and the exact same skin tone as mine: apparently Hispanic, but a few shades darker than most. He spoke to several of the workers, not necessarily kindly, but politely, in perfect Spanish. My heart almost stopped when I thought I heard a hint of a South American accent in his voice, a slightly different pronunciation from the many Mexican immigrants who lived here. When he came to speak to me, he paused for a moment, and an odd expression passed across his expressionless face. His eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, and the corners of his mouth seemed to tremble. It disappeared so quickly, I wondered if I imagined it, and he asked me my name. I would not tell him my real name, of course. Something in his eyes seemed dead, even ruthless, and I felt he was in charge of the secret room beneath the floor. I told him my name was Susan Gonzales.