“By the way,” Henry extends his hand, this time reaching for a very real one. “I’m Henry.”

The name of this man, who might be the closest Henry’s come to a friend all year, is Jorge.

Rush hour has clogged the three-lane freeway to a stop-and-go crawl. The sun above cooks the tarmac below, pressing a sweltering haze into the truck cab. Still though, he doesn’t want to burn any extra gas by running the AC, and just as this crosses his mind, Jorge points to the dashboard.

“I can?”

Jorge reaches past the AC knob for the radio’s, tuning the dial to a mariachi station. The dump truck leading the way comes to a stop, and the motion lulls Jorge’s head into a bob, trailing the song’s beat. His lips mimic language but release no sound. He starts drumming against his lap, and soon enough Henry takes his lead. The good eye peeks over, asking permission. After Henry nods, Jorge grins, then begins singing along, word for word. Between verses the two exchange hushed giggles like kids with a secret. The band’s accordion and brass lilt in a melancholic, minor key, following the one-two-three of a dragged-out waltz. While the singer’s voice warbles cheesy and melodramatic, Jorge’s sandpaper croon seems a far better fit for this forlorn melody. Then again, Henry isn’t sure it’s actually a sad song, since the only lyrics he can actually make out are the refrain’s para siempre, para siempre. Can’t remember what that means either. For something, he figures, then wonders for what?

The song ends with a crash of brass and yodels. Henry applauds against the steering wheel as Jorge bows and blows kisses to adoring fans in the glove compartment. When he sits back upright, he’s beaming and got his phone out, its case patched with frayed duct tape.

“Look,” he tells Henry. “My family.”

Traffic ahead comes to another dead stop. Boot pressed into the brake, Henry brings the phone screen up close. The photo looks like it’d been taken in one of those sun-bleached villages where stray dogs gleefully roam unpaved streets, snouts chasing after children playing soccer and food carts’ barbecue smoke. The family is lined up in front of a stucco house, the roof’s terra-cotta tiles faded to the color of gums. Jorge is wearing the same shirt, only in the photo it’s tucked in, buttoned up, and ironed crisp. He has two eyes here, both fixed firm and proud and straight into the lens. His wife is almost a head taller than him, her skin a healthy maple syrup against the lime of a cotton sundress. In her arms, a baby. To the other side of Jorge are three boys descending in height, their matching flattops making a black stepladder.

Jorge thumps his chest. “All boys.”

“That’s one good-looking family you got there, Jorge.”

“You have?”