Yuma cracks one of the beers in the parking lot and downs half of it. Real Deal finishes it while she loads the rest of the stuff into one of her saddlebags. She throws her leg over her bike and starts it. Real Deal puts his hand on hers to stop her from revving the engine. She glares at him, something wild thrashing behind her eyes.

“You see me, right?” he says. “I’m here for you.”

“But you weren’t always,” she says. She puts her bike in gear and takes off.

Pedro keeps a string of boxcars between him and the hobo jungle at the edge of the train yard. The track bed is elevated enough that if he crouches, he can see under the cars to the camp beyond. He makes his way toward it stealthily, avoiding the noisy crushed-rock ballast covering the embankment.

The jungle is nestled in a grove of willows. A small fire flickers there, and Pedro hears someone speaking Spanish. He climbs on top of a car and lies on his stomach, giving him a clear view of four men gathered around scrap wood burning in a ring of stones. They’re indios, like the ones who did all the shit work in Huamantla, the town in Mexico where he grew up. Short, stocky, and dark.

Two of them are playing cards on an apple crate. The other two are lying on the ground, staring at the flames. A gallon of Gallo is making the rounds. The men in these camps are wanderers and vagrants, runaways and fugitives. The kind of men who disappear. The kind of men nobody misses. Pedro’s knee trembles. He’ll be feeding tonight, he’s sure of it.

“I was in a game in Salinas once, a guy bet his truck.”

“I was in a game where a guy bet his house. And I won it.”

“You never won anything in your life.”

“A woman carrying a baby gets on a bus.”

“No jokes! No jokes!”

“Pass me the bottle.”

“It’s empty.”

The indios are drunk. Pedro can hear it in their voices. He reaches into his pocket for his knife. A train blows its horn somewhere behind him.

“Go for another.”

“The market’s closed.”

“It’s open till midnight.”

“Pendejos.”

One of the card players staggers up the path leading from the jungle to the rail yard. Pedro drops from the top of the boxcar. The only light comes from a few weak bulbs mounted on poles widely spaced around the yard.

The indio crosses two sets of tracks and approaches the string Pedro’s hiding behind. Three cars up from his, the man crawls under the train, emerging on the same side as Pedro. Pedro lies flat on the ground, but the indio is focused on his mission. He sets off across the yard toward a road leading to a small store.