Jesus finally acknowledged me, tipping a grin and tooting the Jaguar’s horn. I squeezed the steering wheel tighter and wondered why I had decided to come. But I had little choice. As I’d told Pita, I’d already committed to Pepper. I would be copping out if I gave him some excuse, especially given my head didn’t hurt that much. In fact, my hangover bothered me more than the gash. I felt heavy, unmotivated, blah—but okay enough for a daytrip. Besides, Jesus’s company or not, I was still interested in seeing the infamous Island of the Dolls.

Cranking up the volume of some Mexican song heavy on the base, Jesus reversed onto the street, swung about, and started off. Pita hopped in next to me in the Porsche.

A couple of minutes into the ride she began humming to herself. She’d pulled her thick wavy hair into a ponytail, away from her face, which was sculptured with faultless features. Long-lashed, coyote-brown eyes (which she liked to say were hazel); a straight nose so unremarkable you didn’t notice it, which was a plus when it came to noses; full lips more playful than pouty; angular cheekbones, and a gently rounded chin.

Pita’s hums transformed into words, a Spanish song I recognized from the radio. She sang it softly under her breath. She had a throaty singing voice.

“What’s up?” I asked her.

She glanced at me. “What do you mean?”

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I’m not allowed to be in a good mood?”

“I just mean…what were you and God talking about?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“I don’t to his face.”

“He calls you Jack.”

What she meant was, he didn’t call me Jack Goff. And she was right; he didn’t. Not to my face anyway. I said, “What were you and your brother talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“You were chatting for five minutes.”

“He’s my brother, Jack. We were just talking.”

“About the weather? The trip?”

“What does it matter?”

“I’m making conversation, Pita.”

“No, you’re making it sound like we were conspirating or something.”

I didn’t correct her mispronunciation. She sometimes got certain English words mixed up or wrong altogether. Conspirating/conspiring was one I’d never heard before though.

“How’s Pepper?” I asked, changing topics.

“Excited.”

“Does he still want to interview you?”

“Yes, he will give me what he wants me to memorize on the boat. He wants you to say some things too.”

“I’m not going on film.”

“He really wants you to.”

“Why doesn’t he ask Jesus?”

“Because Jesus is too well known.”

“And I’m not?”

“We’re not in America anymore, Jack,” she said. “I’m talking about Mexico. People here know my brother. They don’t know you.”