27.
THE SAME DAY, THE FIFTH of November, 2017, El Paso, Texas, Jay awoke in a motel room, a local place on the highway that took cash in advance for the night, no real services offered besides the bed, and no credit card or driver’s license required. He’d waited an hour near the Airstream on the off chance Joe Uno would return. When he didn’t, he’d driven to Las Cruces, crossed the Rio Grande, and stopped at a truck stop for gas, coffee, and a phone charger. In El Paso, he’d parked the Suburban in a Marriot parking lot and then walked along several backstreets for a half mile, until he found the motel he was now in. The place was worn out, stains on the bedspread, lumpy pillows, corners peeling back on the bathroom’s linoleum floor. But he was an anonymous guest, sheltered for a time from
