I have the distinct sensation of the ground shifting beneath me. ‘The only kind of love you can have as a fugitive is a stolen one.’ Duval had said. In the sky a pale blue light tints the horizon. It begins to blur in front of my eyes.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Watch for me.’

I dream I am high up, alone in an eagle’s nest, and the straw lining it scratches my face. When the eagle returns, graceful, munificent, it allows me to cling to its back while it swoops low into the deep canyons and through the dry washes. Above us the sky is white, all colour bleached out by the sun. We fly high over El Turrón’s body, his face bloody no longer, but a blank mask of dust, and I pluck a feather from the eagle’s tail and watch it spiral slowly down towards him.

The shouting breaks into my dream from somewhere far away. ‘¡Tenemos comida! ‘¡Tenemos agua!’ We have food! We have water! ‘¡Tenemos comida! ¡Tenemos agua!’ Louder now and constantly repeated, like a church bell tolling for late worshippers. Then an exclamation from somewhere close by. ‘Hikers! Can you credit it!’ Next thing I know, there’s a smell of piss and tobacco breath, and I’m being gathered up in a pair of enormous fleshy arms as though I’m no heavier than a pile of dirty washing.

‘This one looks pretty cooked!’

I’m being leant upright against something hard but I’m still paralysed with sleep, every bone in my body aching and resistant.

Duval’s voice now. ‘What the . . .’

More shouting. ‘Over here, ‘nother one! A Mexcin!’

A hand grips my wrist. ‘This one’s got a pulse!’

Finally, I get my eyes open and, thoroughly disorientated, blink into the sweating, puce-red face of Nora.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Duval has his gun out.

‘Checking for dehydration.’ She steps back from me, stethoscope swinging round her neck, and places a meaty hand in the centre of his chest.

‘Now lay still, you’re confused.’

‘Good God, Nora! Get your hands off me.’

‘Nora?’ she echoes. ‘And just who the hell are you?’ Her eyes narrow then widen again with recognition. ‘Duval? What in God and sinners’ names . . .?’ She turns from him back to me. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ she exclaims, her suspicion turning to something approaching glee. ‘Oh no, don’t tell me.’ A gargle of laughter bubbles up in her throat as her companion looks on in confusion.

He is in his early fifties, with an unnaturally small face. His eyes dart fretfully between us as he helps Benjamín to his feet. ‘Temperature yesterday was up in three figures.’ He twists the flesh on his chin like a worry bead. ‘We saw the water tank all shot up and we figured . . . well, we figured we’d have a lot to do this morning.’