Hank puts his hand on my knee, and I let him. Trapped in the back of a police car, on my way to a Mexican jail, I could use some comfort right about now.
We tried to explain our situation to the police officer, miming the guzzling of booze and passing out. But we couldn't get our message across. Alma and her family looked at us, as if we were crazy and dangerous.
"I don't want to go to Mexican jail," I whisper to Hank in the back of the cop car. "I hear they don't have air conditioning, and you have to go to the bathroom in front of other people."
He pats my knee. "You're not going to jail," he says, but he doesn't sound convinced. He looks nervously out of the window. We're in the middle of nowhere. Just desert as far as the eye can see. Alma's motel was one of only a handful of struct
