BRIAN
It’s a warm night even for San Diego as we join the long line for the border checkpoint. The giant old Ford sedan that Jamie’s buddy Willy sold me is scarred and ugly, but it runs solid and is comfortable inside. Molly chatters away in the back as we wait for our turn.
I’m not that worried that the security officials will see through our new identification papers. They’re good quality, and we give every appearance of being a typical American family escaping cold weather by going on vacation. Besides ... it’s getting back into the US that’s usually the problem, and I don’t plan to do that for years, if at all.
“Where will you go after the resort in Baja?” Ophelia asks me as she hands Molly an open bottle of orange juice.
“I’ve got a place. I’ve been working on it for years—my hide
