Jasper thinks the town feels deserted, but it’s still early morning. The few dirt streets of the village offer neither street signs nor stop signs. They circle the village and park on the corner near a closed saloon. Large letters painted on the stuccoed façade over the porch read: Maria’s. A dog walks over to the van from the shadows and urinates on their front wheel, then retires back to darkness.

Maddog tries out his Spanish. “Cómo estás, dog.”

“He don’t speak Spanish,” a woman’s voice replies from the shadows.

Jasper leans out of the van and addresses the darkness. “Buenas dias. I didn’t see a customs station along the road anywhere, where in Mexico are we?”

The woman’s disembodied voice replies, steady and stern. “You’re in New Mexico—that’s what part of Mexico you’re in.”