She hesitated for a moment before offering me the pack. Thus began but one of the regrettable habits I’ve been incapable of breaking.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked. “Do you have a plan?”

“No.”

She glanced around. She seemed anxious, as if she were expecting someone and wanted to get me out before anyone saw me there.

“You can stay here for a while,” she said. “As long as you need, I mean. I don’t have much room, but you’re welcome to the futon.”

“I have money,” I said. “I can get a hotel room.”

“Save your money,” she said. “Are you tired?”

I nodded.

“You should sleep,” she said. “I have to go out for a while. Just try to rest. We’ll figure something out in the morning.”

The next day, Teddy walked me down to the historic city center, showed me the great Gothic Parroquia and the other old churches, pointed out the color and the light and the space. The wrought iron window frames dripping with blooming bougainvillea set into aqua and crimson and yellow stucco walls. The narrow cobblestone streets. The statue of Ignacio Allende on horseback, saber extended, covered by pigeons, under an endless blue sky.

We stopped at a small tienda, with a window in a wall facing the street. Teddy ordered tortas and bottles of water. We walked a few blocks, and she took me to her classroom, where she collected an easel and a few small canvases and a satchel. She stuffed brushes and paints into the satchel, handed it to me, and led me outside to an ATV. She got on and patted the seat behind her.

We sped out of the city, up to the rim of the valley, through narrow dirt paths until we reached the edge of a steep canyon surrounding a lake. Teddy led me toward the edge of the cliff.

“They call this La Cañada del Charco,” she said.

Teddy reached into her bag and handed me a torta and a water bottle.

“Eat up,” she said. “Then get to work. And make it good.”

“What for?”

“Your audition.”

She set down the bag with the art supplies.

“See you in a few hours,” she said.

When she returned at dusk, I had a decent study. Over the next few days, I worked on a full-scale version of a barrel cactus against a crumbling stone wall. The giant green bulb reached the edges of the canvas. The golden needles jutted out and slashed across the edges of the frame. I mixed paint again and again, layering it for a rough texture that I hoped would convey the urgency of the strokes and the feeling I had when I painted it, which was like I was trying to speak but had gone mute.