I step out into the thick night air and go to my Wrangler, which is parked in front of the office and where I could keep a close eye on things, and my older charge is calmly sitting there, slightly wrinkled hands folded in his lap, seat belt still in place. I get in and drive my Wrangler down to the end of the bumpy parking lot and park in the rear. My headlights pick up a scrawny creature that races into the underbrush, a starving dog or coyote, I can’t tell.

The room has two twin beds, worn-down green carpeting, a small bathroom that smells of bleach, and a television on a low counter, kept in place by a thick chain and combination lock.

I drop my bag on the floor, motion to the bathroom. “All yours. Have at it.”

He nods and goes in, shuts the door, and I hear water running.

I sit on the edge of the bed, lower my head into my hands.

The shakes begin.

A cool, comforting voice tries to tell me, You didn’t go in there to kill, you went in there to get this old man, you went in to save your family. It was bloody, horrible, and awful, and you’ll feel guilty for the rest of your life, but what choice did you have?

What choice?

I could have gone to the police. I could have gone to my superior officer. I could have gone to the CID. I could have gone to the FBI.

But I have no time.

No time.

The shakes continue.

The smell of burnt gunpowder, the yells, grunts, the way the pistol jumped in my hand, the frantic run through the small house…

The run to the Wrangler, dragging this old man along with me.

I’ll never, ever forget it.

It’s in my memory, my skin, and my bones. And it’ll be there forever.

What choice?

I hear the toilet flush, more running water, and then the slight old man comes out into the motel room, looking at me.

“Still not talking, eh?” I ask.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make a gesture. He sits down on the edge of the other sagging bed, his hands on his knees.

“How long were you in that house?”

No reply.

“Who was keeping you there?”

Silence.

“Why are you so important to someone on the Gulf Coast of Florida?”

Quiet.

I notice my hand is throbbing deeply, and I can’t figure out why, until I remember punching that big tattooed guy twice in the throat while holding an empty metal canister of pepper spray.

“Do you know my husband, Tom Cornwall? He’s a journalist.”

Stillness.

I shift around on the bed. It’s sagging deeply in the middle. I’m thinking I might take a blanket out of the Wrangler and sleep on top of the covers, leave my charge to his own devices.

I say, “Why me, and why you? I have nothing to do with Texas, Mexico, or drug dealers. No offense if you’re Mexican, but the two men back at that house didn’t look like Mormon missionaries from a small town in Utah. And Tom…I don’t think he’s ever been to Mexico. Or Texas. He covers the Middle East. Saudi Arabia. Syria. Iraq. Parts of Africa and Afghanistan.”