He says, “First thing tomorrow, I will walk into town and I will get money wired to me. Dinero. Telegrama. Then I can compensate you for your generosity. That is the only way I will stay here.”

She shakes her head emphatically. “No quiero su dinero.” She pauses, then goes on in a softer voice. “You broke down. I watch. You dancing to the music. Not to the guitarrista or the flute of bambú, but to your own music.” She taps a wizened finger against her temple.

She had watched Jack’s actions—his breakdown, his dancing at the crossroads. As if in a trance, he had begun to shuffle step. And that was when she hurried up to him—gripping his arm, stopping him—and offered him shelter for the night. A place to relax. Regroup. She told him to follow her. And he had, but now, as everything was settling in, sitting on the hard chair in her kitchen, he wonders whether he made the right call. Above the long bench where his backpack lay, hung wood-framed pictures of her family, of her and her husband, possibly her son, grandson. Everyone smiling on some holiday, festival, birthday. Appearing peaceful. Content. It feels almost like being back home and fifteen years old, being comforted by his own mother.

Pushing a damp lock of hair back from the age lines etched into his forehead, he sticks out his hand just as he would to a business client. “Señora,” he says, “I appreciate you helping me and offering me a place to sleep tonight. My name is Jack Dudgeon.”

Smiling, she tells him, “I am Fabiola. I make ponchos and throws, and sometimes I do pottery to sell to the turistas. It is as my ancestors did for ages.” She stands up and walks over to a counter, where bottles line the sill below a small window. “Who have you lost?” she says. “It is staining your being. You wear it like the clothing that covers your flesh. Death does this to a person.”

Astonished, Jack says, “Fabiola, you are reading me like a stock report. I . . .” His eyes tear up. “I have lost so much in the past five years.”

Uncorking a bottle, Fabiola grabs two clay cups from a doorless cabinet and pours a dark liquid into each. She says, “I know death. I, too, have lost much. Let me tell you, all we got is time.”

As she shuffles back toward Jack, the filled cups in her hands, he demands, “Why are you being so kind to me?”

Holding a cup out for Jack, she says, “Drink. It will ease your torment while we talk.”