We decide on a plan: We will go back to the car, and on the way, Reinaldo will stop by the house of his buddy who, he says, “can fix anything from a TV antenna to a rocket ship.” His buddy will see if he can get the car running. I will distract El Alemán somehow. Or bear his anger and paranoia, hoping he doesn’t insult Friend of Reinaldo and leave us to the rental agency, which, I predict, will take double their time estimate. We set off after kissing Lilia goodbye.

We pass the apartment complex again. We step from the dirt road onto the sidewalk that crosses the whole small town, walk under the shade of sprawling trees and past empty stores, wave hello to a man on horseback dragging a cart full of vegetables. We answer questions from a few nosy townspeople. See the girls jumping rope again.

It’s all so familiar, but then midway back, Jeanette surprises me.

“What if,” she says, glancing away from Reinaldo and lowering her voice, “we pay someone to drive us instead? What if we run off and leave El Alemán?”

I think she’s joking, so I laugh, shield my eyes from the sun, and kick away the branches along our path as a red-skinned dog wanders by our side, scratching itself.

“I’m serious,” she says. “What do we need him for?”

The dog’s rib cage is outlined like a dental impression. It looks up with droopy, sad eyes.

“Don’t you remember? He was going to pay,” I say, “for the hotel in Varadero. It’s expensive.”

“Psshhh,” Jeanette says, sounding like Reinaldo in a way that annoys me. “We don’t really need to go to Varadero anyways. Isn’t it just full of tourists?”

“Yeah, and beautiful beach.” I want to say that she is a tourist but hold my tongue. “Where would we go if we don’t go to Varadero? Back to La Habana?”

“You don’t want that, do you?”

Ahead of us, Reinaldo shoos the dog away. I look up at the sun filtering through the branches of a tree until my eye squints of its own volition. I think of Ronny playing dominoes on the promenade in front of our house in Playa. I think of the hole in the ceiling, which still leaks even though he “fixed” it. I think of Ronny in his checkered shirt with a Bucanero in hand, arguing loudly with passersby for hours.

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“What about Camagüey?” Jeanette says. “I always wanted to see Grandma Dolores’s house.”