Again on the highway, it appeared we were headed into another thunderstorm. The sky grew dark, but at least the temperature dropped a degree or two. Rosalita offered me some water. I drank some and handed the bottle back.

“¿Está bien?” I asked.

She was quiet for a while. “A veces nos llevaron a una ciudad,” she said.

I didn’t quite understand. Something about going to a city. I nodded anyway. “Pronto.”

I became increasingly anxious about being on the little road. It was taking us away from El Paso, and I was afraid I would become hopelessly lost, so I worked my way back to the interstate. This was no better, as I merged the bus into nearly standstill traffic. It was already well past two. I called Deocampo and had to leave another message. His second failure to answer left me suspecting that we were being abandoned.

We inched along. Rosalita’s English was about as good as my Spanish. I tried to ask her if everyone was okay, and I believe she told me they were hot but all right. People looked up at me from the cars. I felt naked. I was in constant fear of hitting another car. There had to be roadwork or an accident. From experience I knew it could be something as minor as a man changing a tire. Then I saw the flashing blue lights. Of course, I suspected it was probably an accident, but I couldn’t shake from my mind the possibility that it was a roadblock. It didn’t matter what kind of roadblock, sobriety, vehicle registration, whatever. I had no registration for the bus and couldn’t explain the women. “Yes, I’m driving a stolen bus because I’m taking these kidnapped women back to Mexico.” As I said it to myself, I realized that it didn’t sound so bad, but it would not have gotten the women back to Mexico promptly, and that had become my singular mission, to see them home. And I had, in fact, stolen a vehicle.

The flashing red light of a fire truck allowed me to breathe. I knew then that it was an accident. It turned out to be a car fire. A leather-jacketed man stood by as firemen sprayed foam on his ’64 Mustang convertible. I felt a rush of sadness for the man, surprised I had the energy to feel anything outside my bubble. Once past the scene the traffic flowed. We crossed the state line into Texas.

It was just as hot in Texas.