KILLING SARAI(13)

“We are now five miles south of Nacozari de García.”

I sigh, frustrated with myself for not having any idea where that is, either.

“You’re less than two hours from the United States border,” he says and stuns me.

I whip around, turning fully on the seat, my back pressing against the car door.

“But you said I was—you made it sound like I was days from the border.”

“No. I simply stated the distance was farther than I wanted you as my company.”

I cross my arms angrily over my chest. I’ve no idea where I even get off being angry at all with someone like him and even remotely showing it. Reminding myself quickly of where I am and who I’m with, I put on my timid face again.

“Is that where we’re going?” I ask. “Is this man you’re supposed to kill for Javier in the United States?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

I burst into tears. They come out of nowhere, burning behind my eyes and through my sinuses. But I’m not crying because I’m so close to home, I’m crying because his strange, stoic personality and one-word answers are enough to make me want to figuratively shoot myself. I sob into the palms of my hands, letting my fear and frustration of the American out, along with everything else buried inside: relief that I’ve finally gotten away, fear of being sent back there again, worried about how badly Izel will beat Lydia, the mere fact that I’m in a situation far from anything easy to solve, the hunger in my stomach, the dryness of my throat, not having had a bath in two days now, the fact that I could die at any moment. The only good thing I can account for is that I am, in fact, still alive and not as far away from home as I thought I was.

I feel the car veer off to the right as he pulls onto another highway.

I look over at him, sniffling back the rest of my tears. I reach up and wipe my cheeks with my palms. He never says anything, he doesn’t try to console me or ask questions. He doesn’t seem to care and I don’t care much, either, that he doesn’t. I never expected him to.

Another thirty minutes or so and we’re pulling up to the front of an old roadside convenience store. Only one truck is parked out front, a white Ford with rust along the doors.

“If you want food,” the American says, turning off the engine, “come inside and eat.”

I’m surprised that we’ve stopped at all, much less to feed me. He walks around to my side of the car and opens the door, likely just to make sure he stays by my side at all times rather than to be gentlemanly. He stands there waiting patiently for me to get out. Finally, I do, just after slipping my bare feet down into my flip-flops in the floorboard.

This place can’t be called a roadside diner; I think it would need a few more tables for that, but there is a place to sit and eat, off in a dark corner near a single black door. I have a microwaved chicken sandwich from the freezer; the American, nothing but black coffee. The two of us look out-of-place here. Both of us obviously with no Spanish genes, in a place that is clearly not a tourist town, him dressed in expensive black slacks and shoes, which were probably shiny at one time but are now covered in a fine layer of dirt. I know I must smell pretty bad. I don’t remember the last time I wore deodorant.

I scarf down half of the chicken sandwich and gulp the bottled water until it’s nearly empty. I learned a long time ago never to drink the water in these parts, that if it isn’t from an unopened bottle, it’ll probably make me sick.

The American sips his coffee gradually, reading the contents of a local newspaper of sorts. If I didn’t know better, we could almost pass for an unconventional married couple having breakfast in any typical American town. Unconventional because I’m only twenty-three, and the American, he’s older than me. Middle to late thirties, maybe. If I didn’t know what he was and I just saw him sitting here one day, like he is now with both feet on the floor and his dress-shirt-covered elbows on the table, I’d find him attractive for an older man. He’s clean cut, though with stubble in a pattern along his face. He has sharp cheekbones and piercing blue-green eyes that seem to contain everything but reveal nothing. And he’s very tall, lean and frightening. I find it notable how he scares me more than Javier ever did, yet without having to say a word. At the same time, I feel like I’m better off with the American than I ever was with the likes of Javier.

At least, for now. That’ll change, I’m sure, when he tries to hand me back over to him.

But I’ll die before I let that happen.

“Are you ever going to tell me your name?” I ask.

He raises his eyes from the newspaper without moving his head.

I can sense immediately that he doesn’t care to tell me, to get that personal with his ‘hostage’, but finally he throws me a bone.

“Victor.”

I’m so stunned he even told me that it takes me a second to think of what to say next.

I sip my water.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

It’s worth a try.

“Why don’t you finish your food,” he suggests and peers back down into the paper.

“You know my name. You know where I’m from. Why don’t you humor me, Victor?” The bitterness in my tone wasn’t an accident.

I figure that if he was going to kill me, I’d be dead already, so I’m not really as afraid of him as my conscience is telling me I should be.