But now, sitting in this parking lot on a bright Sunday morning, having just found one immigrant family’s missing daughter and putting the hurt on a scumbag like Bobby Bonaroo, I don’t feel like patting myself on the back, or like I just won one for the good guys. I don’t even really register a sense of accomplishment. Mostly I just feel tired. Is this what’s waiting for me down the road? Another empty parking lot, secretive emails, short bursts of violence followed by long, tedious hours of waiting and watching, mostly alone? My brother lives alone, but he has neighbors and friends, and our uncle. Our parents were both killed by a bad man with a gun, and for months beforehand my father had been struggling—and my mother, too, to be fair—but they had at least died together. What about me? Somehow I don’t see myself dying at age ninety in a bed surrounded by my loving family. More likely I’ll die in a back alley or a stairwell, chasing someone who ought to be caught and punished, only to be shot or stabbed or thrown from a great height, or otherwise killed in some spectacularly violent fashion.

“Fuck it,” I say aloud, and I put the truck in gear and drive out of the parking lot, leaving Bobby Bonaroo and those nagging doubts behind me. Time to get to the motel and call the cops before I leave town. I need to figure out the best way to get to North Dakota.

THE LONE STAR Inn is about as original as its name. Picture any generic roadside motel from the 1970s, with the same paint and decor as it had on opening day, and that’s where I’ve been staying while visiting the greater San Antonio metro area. Even the people who run the place look like they stepped out of a sitcom about a motel: they’re an older couple, husband and wife, named Bert and Shirley. Bert favors a comb-over and wears cardigans against the chill of the air conditioning. Shirley is plump, with blue hair and a tired cheerfulness, like a cruise director who woke up one day to find herself managing a motel off I-10 but makes the best of it. Bert is on duty when I pull into the Lone Star’s parking lot, and through the plate-glass windows of the lobby I can see Bert sitting behind the front desk, taking a nap. I roll past and down to the end unit and park. I need a nap myself, and a shower, and then I’ll call the cops before hopping on the highway. Maybe I’ve got some protein bars left to eat. A Clif bar and gas station coffee: breakfast of champions.