Traffic roars by, and the occasional tractor-trailer truck buffets her car, rocking against her back.

“Hello?”

Rosaria wipes at her eyes, stands up. Behind her disabled Buick is a dented and rusting blue Audi sedan, and an older Vietnamese woman is looking at her with concern.

“Hi,” Rosaria says. “Thanks for stopping, but I think if I—”

The woman, wearing baggy black slacks and a floral blouse down to her thick hips, turns and yells back at the parked sedan. The rear door flies open and two young Vietnamese men and a woman bail out and come to her. Another older male is dozing in the front seat.

The woman points and yells at the three young people, and the two men get right to work, slipping the jack handle in, while the young woman—a sister?—wrestles the spare tire closer to the car.

“Um, hey, I mean—”

The Vietnamese woman shakes her head. “We’ll be done soon. You see.”

And by God, that’s exactly what happens. The two young men manage to get the jack working, get the rear end of the Buick up, while their mother and sister offer advice, criticism, and tips in fast bursts of Vietnamese, and soon enough, the flat tire is tossed into the trunk, the car is lowered down, the jack and handle are put away, and after a round of handshakes, the two young men and woman get back into the car.

Rosaria tries to get to her bag, to offer something to the family, but the woman violently shakes her head.

“No, no,” she says. “We’re good now. Honest. Go with God, my sister.”

Rosaria bows to her. “You, too. Go with God.”

And as they leave, horn honking, everyone waving save for the older man still sleeping in the front, Rosaria knows that no matter what happens in the next hour, she will never, ever forget this family and what they did for her.

I check my watch after I leave the Yucatan beachwear store, feeling about as conspicuous as an elephant in a child’s wading pool. There was a bathing suit waiting for me, and I’m so self-conscious walking out in public with such a skimpy article of clothing that I’m sure my ears and face are burning. My jiggling butt cheeks are hanging out, my boobs—not impressive but a reasonable size—are oozing out of the sides of the small top, and I hate to look down, seeing my flabby and pale white tummy overhanging the tiny triangle of cloth that is rubbing and tearing at me something fierce.

My watch says I have fifteen minutes before the exchange, and I know why my nameless tormentor has ordered to me to dress this way: he wants to make sure I’m not concealing a weapon, and by God, this jet-black suit is so skimpy I don’t think I could hide a nail file.

Archie is right next to me, the placid yet mournful look still on his face. The dressing rooms back there had doors of wooden slats so I could keep watch on him while I changed, but he’s been a very good victim.