Around midnight, we crossed over into New Mexico and stopped at a standard, twenty-­four-­hour truck stop for something to eat. He helped me to a booth, where I sat, pale and trembling, while my traitorous legs screamed at me, and he went in to wash his hands. It was a foolishly long time before I realized he wasn’t coming back. When the knowledge finally struck, a stone plopped into the pit of my stomach and sat there, amid the emptiness and bile, and I lifted the greasy menu and found that he’d slipped ten dollars beneath it before slipping out the back.

I ordered hot chocolate and sipped at it, avoiding the curious eyes of the resident night people. My legs radiated so much pain they seemed to warm the booth.

I had been abandoned. I was on the run, alone, half-­crippled, in the middle of nowhere. He had left me cold, without so much as a good-­bye. My self-­pity flamed into anger. How dare he! Hadn’t we shared . . . What?

Just exactly what had you shared, Angelina, I asked myself, and then I realized the worst. The man had saved my life, fed me and driven me, and I had never even asked his name.

The pain in my legs was momentarily forgotten as I marveled at this. What had I become, that I could be so insensitive? My face burned, I held a mouthful of cocoa on my tongue until I could swallow it past the clump of self-­pity in my throat, my vision blurred under the wash of unfallen tears.

Don’t stop now, Angelina, I told myself. I blinked away the tears, swallowed the chocolate, and swooned slightly with the onslaught of pain from my legs. Sarah. Sarah will know what to do and how to do it. The vision of Sarah stretching on her floor, every fiber tight and smooth, her skin glowing with perspiration and the flush of health made me smile. That is what I want, I thought. And Sarah will know how to give it to me.

I ordered another cup of chocolate and a rare steak, rubbed my legs, and began to look around. The first thing I noticed was the placemat. It was a map of the state of New Mexico, with a big star in the northwest corner that said, “New Mexico State Cafe!” in outlined, dramatic letters. It matched the lettering on the menu. This version of “You Are Here” on the map probably saved the bored waitresses thousands of questions. It lifted my spirits; I hadn’t far to go.

I drank the second cup of chocolate and ate small bites of the overcooked steak. The cafe was fairly empty on this cold Christmas night. Truck drivers were at home with their families. I would be fortunate indeed to find a ride.

And if I didn’t?