It was close to 9:00 P.M. and Dance was now getting a firsthand taste of this musical sound in the sweltering garage of Jose Villalobos, on the outskirts of Fresno. The family’s two Toyotas had been banished from the small, detached structure, which was usually a rehearsal hall. Tonight, though, it was a recording studio. The six musicians of Los Trabajadores were just finishing up the last number for Dance’s digital recorder. The men, ranging in age from twenty-five to sixty, had been playing together for some years, both traditional Mexican folk music and their own material.

The recording had gone well, though the men hadn’t been too focused at first—largely because of whom Dance had brought with her: Kayleigh Towne, hair looped in an elaborately braided bun atop her head, in faded jeans, T-shirt and denim vest.

The musicians had been awed and two had scurried into the house to return with wives and children for autographs. One of the women had tearfully said, “You know, your song ‘Leaving Home’—we all love it. God bless you for writing it.”

This was a ballad about an older woman who’s packing up her belongings and leaving the house where she and her husband raised their children. The listener wonders if she’s just become a widow or if the house has been foreclosed on by the bank.

Now I’m starting over, starting over once again,

To try to make a new life, without family or friends.

In all my years on earth, there’s one thing that I know:

Nothing can be harder than to leave behind your home.

Only at the end is it revealed that she’s undocumented and is being deported, though she’s spent her whole life in the United States. Just after the woman is dropped off alone at a bus station in Mexico, she sings the coda: “America The Beautiful” in Spanish. It was Kayleigh’s most controversial song, earning her the anger of those taking a hard line on immigration reform. But it was also hugely popular and had become an anthem among Latino workers and those preaching a more open border policy.

As they were packing up, Dance explained how the songs would be uploaded onto her and Martine’s website. She couldn’t guarantee what might happen but given that the band was so good they’d probably sell a fair number of downloads. And it was possible, with the growth of Latino radio throughout the United States and independent record labels specializing in that sound, that they might draw some producers’ or ad agencies’ attention.

Curiously, becoming successful didn’t interest them in the least. Oh, they wouldn’t mind making some money with their music but with the downloads only. Villalobos said, “Yeah, we don’t want that kind of life—on the road. We won’t travel. We have jobs, families, bebés. Jesus has twins—he got to go change diapers now.” A glance toward the grinning, handsome young man who was packing away his old battered Gibson Hummingbird guitar.

They said good-bye and Dance and Kayleigh climbed into her dark green Suburban. Dance had left her Pathfinder at the Mountain View and had ridden here with Kayleigh in her SUV. Darthur Morgan began the drive back to Dance’s motel. He’d stayed out in the SUV to keep an eye on the street. Six or seven small hardcover books, leather bound, were in the front seat. The titles were stamped in gold, on the spine only. Classics, Dance guessed. He didn’t seem to read them when he was on guard duty itself. Maybe they were his pleasure when he was in his room at night. A portal to take him away from the persistence of threat.