What Carlos means is a drive to Provincetown, which is at the very tip of the Cape. It’s a kitschy town with narrow, crowded streets, T-shirt stores, and souvenir places. Rainbow flags flutter from most of the shops, and a man in a pink wig hands us a card to a drag show later that night. By the pier, families are lining up for the whale-watching boats. Still I can’t get rid of the nervous pulse in my body.

Leaving Kamal with Carlos, I go into one of the touristy shops, looking at sailboat mugs and napkin holders, placemats. Then my eyes light on the perfect item: long strings of tiny white seashells. I buy a whole bunch of them: a peace offering for Fatima. She’ll figure out what to do with them. Not that I know if I’ll ever see her again. I lean against a storefront, trying to compose myself. What did we get ourselves into?

Kamal comes running over. “Did you see?”

“What?”

“Carlos!”

I rush down the street to see that Carlos is by a low wall; he has his sketch pad out and is drawing a little girl. “He’s good,” the father comments.

Of course. Carlos has charmed someone into letting him draw them. Though it isn’t easy: The girl is squirmy and keeps chewing on her saltwater taffy. A picture emerges of a sulky little girl with a turned-up nose and a bow-tie-shaped mouth. Pleased, the dad hands Carlos a twenty and tells him to keep it up. As we’re leaving, a woman steps out of a little shop and shouts, “Hey!”

Carlos looks scared, pulling his head into his sweatshirt hood.

“I saw you drawing there!” Then we realize the woman, who introduces herself as Marge, is offering to let him set up in the alleyway right next to her shop.

Carlos’s shoulders drop with relief. He isn’t being accused of something. This is just like what he used to do, in Guanajuato—portraits of tourists. She shows us a little cobbled lane and folding chairs that he can use. “It would be my pleasure,” he says.

Marge beams. “So well-mannered.”

And so it’s settled: Carlos will be back on the weekend after his restaurant shift; they’ll charge thirty for a portrait, and Carlos negotiates for a 70 percent cut. We celebrate with a dinner at an outdoor dockside restaurant, the three of us sharing a lobster roll, mayonnaise dripping down our fingers, and a captain’s special of fried fish and clams. A ruddy sun is dipping down on the horizon, swelling the water in vibrant hues. “Can we go on the whale boats?” Kamal asks.

“Yes,” Carlos says automatically.

“They’re expensive,” I warn.

He motions to his sketch pad. “I’m a working man! Making money from drawing, just like you said!” He lightly punches my arm.

I give him a feeble grin back. So I’m just a buddy.