The night following Chavez’s unannounced visit I hadn’t been able to sleep. I stood out on the deck long after the children were in bed. The stars were so dense it looked like someone had spilt salt over the sky. Somewhere under this same lemon slice of moon, the workers slept, holed up safely in the schoolroom, the children turned and muttered, and Duval rumbled to a place unknown with his charges. I was forced to admit to myself that whatever he was capable of, whatever he had done, I didn’t care. I stood there, a blanket round my shoulders, dreaming of his skin touching mine; and at the thought, a pain shot through to the pads of my fingers, a surge of electricity so strong that I reckoned I could light up a bulb simply by cupping my hands around it, or power one of Jack’s toy trains along its track with the touch of my finger, and I knew then that I had never been as hungry for anyone as I was for this man.

‘Well yihaw!’ The slam of the hammer brings me back. The auctioneer has knocked down a big steer for $800. On the other side of the ring, Jeff Hogan stands up and receives a round of applause for his philanthropy.

‘That shaw iz one pretty dumb-looking animal,’ I drawl in my best Arizonian. Next to me, I feel Chavez stiffen. ‘The one down there,’ I add sweetly. ‘Look, Jack! Emmy!’ A small boy is leading an emu around the sawdust ring. It bucks its head coquettishly and purses its lips in a broad come-hither to the auctioneer, who holds out his hands in exasperation.

‘Will somebody please find out whether you can eat these damn things,’ he drawls to general laughter.

‘Well, folks.’ Hogan sits down behind us. ‘I just bought myself one hellova steak dinner.’ He shakes hands with Chavez, claps me on the shoulder. ‘Ma’am, kids, good to see you here. Enjoying your day at our little fair, I hope?’ He shakes his head sorrowfully as the emu is led out of the ring. ‘Some damn fool thought it a fine idea when they bought it for two thousand dollars and now they’re having to sell for a hundred.’ He pulls down on the corners of his Waylon Jennings waistcoat and slides a quick look in my direction. ‘It’s a cautionary tale you could apply to most border economics, wouldn’t you say, Chavez?’ He beckons to a girl, who approaches brandishing a clipboard. ‘Time to pay for my sins.’ He rises from his seat. ‘Mrs Coleman, ma’am, I’m thinking you and I need to get together.’ He stoops closer. ‘Real soon.’

I watch him in mute anger as he squeezes his stone-washed derrière between knees and the backs of the racked seating.

‘There’s talk of you going into business with Hogan,’ Chavez says.