I did. I kept touching the gas to keep it going.

“Got it?” he asked.

“Thank you.”

“Gracias,” Rosalita said.

“You bet.” He backed out of the bus, looked again at the women. “You folks have a good trip.”

“Thanks again,” I said.

As we drove away, I didn’t know what to think. Had he intuited that these were frightened women and that I was helping them? Was he playing it cool so that he could run and call the police? Whatever, I had to assume that now our direction of travel was known. I got off the interstate at Williamsburg, bought water at a gas station, and decided to proceed south on the state route 187.

The roadside was hardly empty, peppered as it was with rundown and shut-down businesses—tire retreads, radiator repair—and the occasional tiny church built out of the same aluminum siding as the shops. There was none of the quaint charm of northern New Mexico down here. There was little traffic, but only two lanes made it congested and slow going. We were another hour into the drive when I noticed that we still had half a tank of gas. The gauge was not working. I didn’t know whether there were three quarters of a tank or a mere three quarts; I had no choice but to continue on.

Rosalita somehow detected my concern. “Okay?”

“Everything is okay,” I said.

The road turned southwest and ducked under the interstate, continued on the west side of it. The route promised to add hours to the trip, but I felt committed to it. I called Deocampo and left a message telling him we would be later and not to leave if we were not there when he arrived. All had gone smoothly from the first, but now everything seemed to be falling apart.

I stopped at a convenience store with two gas pumps. I got out and walked around the vehicle realizing that I had no idea where the gas cap was. Regardless, I didn’t trust myself to be able to restart the engine even if I did figure it out.

In the little store I grabbed jugs of water and put them on the counter. The cashier looked out the open door at the bus and then gave me a long study. “I got a bathroom around back,” she said. She was a gray-haired Hispanic woman. “It’s real clean.” Though her un-air-conditioned store was as hot as the bus, she didn’t appear to mind. “Who you got in that bus?” she asked. I was impressed by her directness.

“Friends,” I said. “I’m taking them home to Mexico.”

She looked at my eyes, into my eyes.

I looked away.

“Take some bags of chips,” she said. “On the house.”

I thanked her and left. I looked back as I was stepping into the bus. The little woman was standing in the doorway. She offered a small wave.