I peered through the window and wondered how he could be so sure. It looked like fucking Mars out there. A thin brown sand worrying itself over a bleached yellow ground. Nothing alive, all the rocks weathered into dust.

“The land of Frank Sinatra, Jennifer Lopez, Jorge Bush,” Pedro was saying to himself.

“Thanks for getting us over,” I said.

Pedro tilted the mirror down to look at me. He gave me an ironic half smile. My friend, I don’t do this dangerous job for praise, but I certainly appreciate it.

I’d made my first mistake. Now Pedro had singled me out in his mind as a classy sort of person, different somehow from the others. Someone with enough old-fashioned manners to say thank you. That, my demeanor, and my odd accent-all of it more than enough to burn my way into his consciousness.

Keep your mouth shut in future. Don’t do anything different. Don’t say a goddamn word.

I stole a look at him, and of course all this was in my head, not his-he was far too busy. The windshield wipers were on, he was smoking, he was steering with one hand, shifting gears with the other, while repeatedly scanning the radio, tapping the ash from his cigarette, and touching a Virgin of Guadalupe on the dashboard every time we survived a pothole.

He was about fifty, dyed black hair, white shirt with frills on the collar. The M19 spiderweb tattoo on his left hand meant that he’d probably feel bad about leaving us for the vultures but he’d do it if it came to that.

The kid looked at me. “United States?” he asked, pointing out the window.

“What’s the matter with you, don’t you speak Spanish?” I was going to say but didn’t. He was an Indian kid from some jungle town in Guatemala. His Spanish probably wasn’t so great.

“Yeah, we’re across the border.”

“So easy?” he asked, his eyes widening. He, at least, was impressed.