The truck trembled and squeaked as he climbed inside the camper and settled down. I made myself as comfortable as I could and tried not to think too much about what morning would bring. The door to the Mexican’s room was painted brown, the number white. Below the number was a silhouette of a covered wagon.

Sometime around 4 a girl emerged from one of the other rooms, a big girl wearing pajamas and pink slippers. She walked to the pay phone in front of the motel and dialed the operator. Slouched in the soul-bleaching fluorescent bubble of the booth, she looked like a criminal or a victim. She told the operator she wanted to make a collect call and pressed her forehead to the glass wall, listening to the rings, waiting for someone to answer.

“Mom,” she said when someone finally did, “I’m married,” and started to weep.

Czarnecki woke me by banging on my window. I’d nodded off somewhere near dawn, slid into a half dream of running, falling, and running again. I was relieved to be startled out of it, but as soon as I remembered where I was, I wished I’d come to a million miles away.

The sun was rising over the scarred foothills to the east. A few wispy clouds blushed pink. All the decisions I’d made the day before seemed like bad ones, and I was full of dread. I climbed out of the truck and stomped away the stiffness in my legs. I needed coffee. I needed aspirin. I needed a way out.

Czarnecki hocked and spit and lit his third cigarette of the morning. One foot dragged a bit as he walked up and set a duffel bag on the hood.

“Let’s get to it before everyone’s up and about,” he said.

I didn’t ask any questions. It was too late for that. The match had been struck, the lake of gasoline shimmered beneath it. I followed Czarnecki across the parking lot to the Mexican’s room. He unzipped the duffel and took out a crowbar. I felt like I had a sponge stuck in my throat.

Thirty years fell off the old man as he turned and gave me a wink. He wedged the hooked end of the bar into the crack between the door and the jamb. The flimsy lock broke with one tug, and the door swung open to reveal the Mexican lying on a bed in his underwear. He started to sit up, but Czarnecki was on him in a flash. He pushed him back onto the mattress and plunged an ice pick into his chest, and he died without a sound.

Czarnecki struggled to his feet, a sick old man once again.

“I like to use a pick,” he said. “Less blood.” He took a few deep, wheezy breaths, then said, “Come here.”