On a drive through Arroyo Grande last spring.
I'm heading northeast towards the 227, a rural highway that takes you from ag up to San Luis Obispo through Edna Valley, an alternate route to the 101, a 1500 miles freeway that goes from Los Angeles all the way up to the state of Washington.
Before I merge onto the official on ramp of the 227, I turn into a residential neighborhood and everything suddenly gets a lot quieter as trucks behind me continue on the state route.
I turn up a steep street surrounded by wooden fences.
I expect to be able to keep driving, but the top of the street turns into a cul de sac and I realize that the only way out is to turn back around the way I just came from.
In the 10 seconds that it takes me to make a U turn, I see a man emerge from the driveway next to me.
Hes short, in his late seventies, with white hair, glasses and a mustache, and wearing a light colored t shirt and sweatpants.
Its almost 02:00 p.m.
but he looks a little disheveled, like he just got out of bed.
He stands there and watches me closely as I turn back down the steep street.
I don't say anything to him.
I'm not here to cause trouble.
It seems unproductive at this moment, but I do turn and make eye contact with him before I drive off.
It's a brief, mutual acknowledgement.
We've never met, but I know exactly who he is, and he knows exactly why I'm driving by his house.
This is Ruben Flores, Paul Flores father, and this is the house the Flores family moved into in June of 1992 when they left their home in Torrance.
I'm still buzzing from the encounter a half mile later when I pass a blue, nautical themed house near the village.
In the driveway.
Mike McConville is working on his van, and his girlfriend, Susan Flores, is climbing into her car.
Just seconds after their house is out of sight, I make eye contact with a striking blonde college student with dark, friendly eyes.