{"type":"location","location":{"title":"Wynwood Café, Miami - Morning, October 1962","description":"The smell of strong cafecito and cigarette smoke hangs in the humid air. You sit in a corner booth of this cramped, worn café on NW 24th Street—a place where exiles gather to whisper about the old country and the future they believe still awaits them. The walls are yellowed, decorated with faded photographs of Havana's grand hotels and a calendar that stopped months ago.\n\nIt's been three weeks since the Bay of Pigs. The neighborhood is raw with disappointment and anger. Some men here still wear the looks of soldiers who expected to be liberators, not refugees. Others carry themselves differently—quieter, calculating. You've been a journalist for six years, but never embedded in a community this fractured, this desperate.\n\nThis morning, a source you've cultivated for months left you an unmarked envelope beneath your usual table before dawn. You haven't opened it yet. Your editor doesn't know about this meeting. In this city, that might be important.\n\nThe café owner, Miguel, gives you a knowing nod from behind the counter. He asks no questions. A radio plays low—news of the failed invasion dominates every station.\n\nYour hands are steady, but your pulse is not.","suggestedActions":["Open and examine the envelope your source left for you","Observe the other patrons in the café more carefully","Call your editor from the phone booth outside","Ask Miguel if he saw who left the envelope"],"conversation":"p7hn5g6ffatnm23tj9uqza"},"conversationLength":1,"maxFreeConversationLength":10}