“I’ll take you for a dollar,” says her friend. We ignore them and keep going. Jeanette glances back at the children with such a sad smile that I look away in embarrassment.

The corner store is a wooden shack big enough for two people standing side by side. A description of goods and prices are hand-painted onto the side of the shack. The man on the other side of the iron bars watches us cautiously.

“Tell him I want three bottles of the best rum he’s got. Havana Club,” El Alemán says to me. “And no funny business. Tell him I can see the prices with my own eyes.” I don’t say so obviously. I just tell the man we want three bottles of Siete Años. He smiles. “Yuma knows his rum.”

“Alemán,” I correct him.

“Same shit,” he responds.

When we get back to the car, it won’t start. El Alemán turns and turns the key, and the engine just sputters.

“Are you kidding me?” he shouts. “What the fuck did these people do to the car?”

“What people?” I say, rolling down the window.

“Obviously one of the townspeople did something to my car.”

“Why would they do that?” Jeanette says.

El Alemán turns the key again but the car just shakes.

“Of course they didn’t do anything,” I say.

“Don’t you see? They’re trying to rob us.”

“Oh my God.” Jeanette brings a hand to her mouth. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“That’s absurd. Do you know how quickly the cops respond to tourist complaints?”

“Maydelis, it makes sense.” Jeanette leans over from the back seat and places a hand on my arm. “But never mind, what do we do?”

I get out of the car and slam the door. I can hear Jeanette as I march through the dirt in my chancletas toward the cafetería, a long platform painted in peeling blue and surrounded by patches of grass. I hear Jeanette say, “Where is she going?”

The four men watching the baseball game gather around to hear my story. I’m the excitement for the day.

“Coño,” a dark, thick man in rubber boots says. “Let me see if señora Lilia is around. She’s the one with a phone. She lives ten minutes from here.” He gets up from his stool.

“Wait,” I say. “Let me get the German man. He’s the one who should talk to the rental agency.”

“Why, linda? You can talk to them in Spanish.”

“No, no, he speaks English,” I say. “The rental agency will speak English.”