When Victor's mother died, I offered to drive him home, since I knew he didn't have a car or the necessary funds to purchase the Greyhound ticket to get back down to the southernmost reaches of Mexico. Plus, I was sick of my job, and after he left, I would be the only one left of the original crew, and all the new people just didn't get it.

Although the extent to which we had spoken over the previous 9 months included only the phrases, "Listo!", "All todo?", and "No bueno!", the look he shot me after our manager Manuel translated my offer into Spanish conveyed an understanding not recognized by either of us during that time. He smiled, said, "Si," and that was that.

I picked him up from a house he shared with three other distant members of his family the following morning at 5 a.m., and we headed west on I-20, towards El Paso.