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said. They are?
    That’s all they are, she said. It’ll help me in the desert. And I do believe in my soul. Anxiety’s the killer.
    Yeah, I said. That’s true. Can I ask you a question?
    Anything, she said. She squeezed my red, chapped hands and the room suddenly smelled like milk.
    Why were you crying before? I asked.
    Oh, that, she said. Okay, here’s the thing. It’s true that I have a new cure that I’m counting on to get me throughlife and it’s true that I’m a little bit tough but the reality is that I’m a middle-aged woman in the middle of nowhere, a Mexican desert for God’s sake, about to do something I have no experience doing and I’m feeling very, very alone and unsure and ridiculous and afraid.
    Well, why did you agree to be in the movie? I asked her.
    I’m not really sure, she said. Why did you agree to be my translator?
    I’m not sure either, I said.
    Well, I think I do know, actually, she said.
    Yeah? I said. Why?
    Because we were asked to, she said.
    Oveja was stoned and following me from a distance. Elias, the cameraman, had told me on my way out that Oveja had eaten his stash of pot and that it had made him more philosophical. He’ll think twice before he attacks, he said. Elias made me laugh. He didn’t stop talking, like he didn’t care that silence was supposedly golden, his currency was different. He had bought himself some clothes from the store in town, Wrangler jeans and a plaid shirt and work boots. Now I’m a Mennonite, he said. He told me that when he was a boy in Mexico City he had learned about Mennonites. He had seen some of them selling cheese on the streets and he had wanted to be one. Elias told me that he had even drawn a self-portrait of himself as a Mennonite in a bathtub. It’s remarkable, he said, that now I’m making a film about them. He showed me a photograph of himself as a little boy on a beach in Acapulco. See that? he said. Hetold me that when he was a little boy he had an ass but that somehow, along the road to adulthood, he had lost his ass. Do you see? he said. He turned around so I could look at him. I thought he did have an ass but a small one. Look at Wilson, he said. He’s got two asses and I have none. That’s not fair.
    Wilson ignored him completely. He was writing something down. Then he looked up and smiled at me and shrugged his shoulders. I’m Wilson, he said. That’s fine, I said. Why did I say it was fine for him to be Wilson? I wanted to go back and tell him that I was Irma. But he knew that.
    Diego asked me, before I left for home, if Marijke was okay and what we had talked about. She’s fine, I said. Diego told me that the others had returned with the essential camera part and that tomorrow morning, early, we’d start shooting.
    I was less afraid of Oveja now that he was a philosopher but I was nervous when he followed me home. I imagined his brown teeth sinking, pensively, into the back of my leg in search of something elusive. I thought about what Marijke had said. Oveja, I said, would you please stop following me? Asking didn’t change anything with dogs.
    Aggie was standing like a thief in the night at the dark end of my driveway. Her hair was tied back tightly, viciously. Her head shone like an egg.
    What’s wrong? I asked her.
    What’s that? she said, pointing at Oveja.
    What’s wrong? I asked her again.
    Everybody hates you, she said. She kicked a bit of sand in my direction. Oveja sighed. What was the point. Stars fell.
    That’s not true, Aggie, I said. They don’t care enough about me to hate me. You’re the only one who does.
    I don’t hate you, said Aggie.
    I know, I said. How do you like my new friend?
    He’s hideous, said Aggie. He’s an asshole and he stinks like shit. I hope he gets run over by a baler.
    We stood quietly and stared at the night. We were living in a dark, empty pocket. Not even the Hubble telescope could spot us on the earth’s surface now.
    Oh, c’mon, Aggie, I said. Stop crying. I wanted to