Talia acted fascinated though she was already sick of the other café people eyeing her as if she were some baby puta looking to pick up.

“Do you mind if we go somewhere else to talk?”

The guy looked uncertain but followed her out of the café to the cobblestone road. He wore jeans and a T-shirt under a denim jacket. On his wrist, a macramé bracelet in the national colors, the kind Colombian girls give their foreign boyfriends.

“Where is your girlfriend?”

A look now as if this Elena girl had come to entertain him. “I left her in Caldas.”

They settled onto a bench in front of a church on the plaza. He lit a cigarette and offered her one, which she took. Silence, until he slid his hand over hers. She was a virgin but had kissed four different boys since she turned thirteen. His hand was heavy and rough, but she didn’t push it away.

“Tell me, Elena. What do you want from me?”

“I need to get back to Bogotá. My father is waiting for me.”

“You just want bus fare?” He sounded disappointed.

She sensed he was a man yearning for purpose. If not for his whole life at least for that day. The sun was a buttery smear behind the mountainfold. In a few minutes, there would be no light.

“Do you have a car?”

“I do.”

“You could drive me yourself. It would be safer than taking the bus alone. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

He hesitated, maybe expecting her to beg or offer something in exchange. “I don’t like going on these roads at night. I rented an apartment here for the week. If your story is true I imagine you have nowhere else to stay. You can come with me, and I’ll take you home in the morning.”

She smiled thinly. “Can you also buy me some new clothes so I can change out of these dirty ones? I saw a store earlier. We can still make it before they close.”

His apartment was one room of stucco walls under wooden beams. They sat on the sofa, a picnic of empanadas and chorizo between them. She wore the new jeans, blouse, and sweater he bought her. They couldn’t find socks for sale, so he gave her a pair of his to wear with her prison sneakers, with their crusted canvas and gnashed soles. He’d wanted to take her to a restaurant for dinner. She explained that even though the news wouldn’t show her face, her picture had probably been circulated among the police stations of the region. She didn’t want to be spotted and turned over to the law when she was just trying to get home.

“Could I get in trouble for helping you hide?”

“They never do anything to foreigners. Besides, being charitable is not a crime.”

He liked this answer and poured her more wine, which she’d barely been sipping.

“I can’t believe you’re only fifteen. I thought you were much older. Your face. Something… I don’t know.”