Patricia pulled a nearby chair close to the side of the bed and sat. She took a small voice recorder from her purse and, holding it up to view, asked, “Do you mind if I record our conversation, Amber? I’d hate to miss something important.”

“That’s fine with me. You record all you like. But I got a question for you first, Miss Patricia. Is Kenny-saw yo’ man? ’Cause I know if I was you, he’d sho’ be mine.”

Amber looked up at me with a mischievous smile on her face. I grinned in reply.

Patricia stuttered, “Well, I—I mean that—well...”

Amber looked again at Patricia.

“I always thought it funny how white people blushes red when they embarrassed. That one thing don’t happen if you black—leastways, nobody can tell it if you do.”

Amber giggled at Patricia’s discomfort, and then Patricia, realizing Amber was being playful, laughed aloud.

“I claim my right to remain silent about that, Amber,” Patricia replied.

“Okay,” said Amber. “But I might just ask you again sometime.”

“I’ll be ready the next time you do,” Patricia said as she reached over and patted Amber’s hand.

“I’m going to step out for a minute, but I’ll be right back. Is that okay with you, Amber?” I announced.

“Yes,” she said. “Me and Miss Patricia will be fine.”

I went back out to my car and drove to a nearby Mexican restaurant. I doubted that Amber had eaten much and I thought some caldo de pollo—Mexican chicken soup—would give her strength and maybe lift her spirits some. I knew that the simple act of talking was very fatiguing for her. When I returned, she and Patricia were deep in conversation. I went to the kitchen, filled a bowl with the soup, opened the saltine crackers, and brought it to the bed on a tray. Amber protested at first that she wasn’t hungry, but I insisted that she at least try a little bit. She managed to finish half the bowl.

“That was good, Kenny-saw,” she said as she pushed the tray aside. “That was good, but I cain’t eat no mo’.”

“You did good, Amber. And I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I responded as I picked up the tray to carry it to the kitchen.

“Let’s keep on, Patricia,” Amber said. “’Cause I don’t know how much longer I can talk befo’ I give out. When I get tired, it hit me all of a sudden-like, an’ then, that’s it.”

“Okay, Amber,” Patricia said, clicking on the recorder. “You were telling me about the houses where the girls are held. You want to pick it up from there?”

“Yeah, I remember. Well, as I was sayin’ . . .”