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asking her some questions, but she don’t answer.”
    “Where exactly did you find her?” Her words caused him to move backward toward the door, holding up his hands as though he were under arrest.
    “You’re lucky I bring her here. Most of—you know what will happen if a coyote finds her. She’ll disappear, or end up in a ditch somewhere—dead.” He stepped away from the girl, slid into one of the blue plastic chairs that lined the room’s perimeter, and patted the chair next to him. More curious than disgusted, Victoria sat down.
    He moved in close. “I have to get back. I’m just here making a delivery,” he snickered, glancing at his watch. “Eeh! I’m already late because of her!” He leaned forward, shifting his expression to one of pure menace, his breath redolent of alcohol and cigarettes. “You find out who she knows, where she’s going,” he hissed. “I’ve done my good deed. The sign outside, it says ‘Center for Help,’ no? Help her, let her be deported, I don’t care.”
    “I’ll see what we can do,” Victoria replied, motioning to Gracie to get the girl out of the reception area. She allowed herself to be led, but hesitated to look his way.
    He stood up, removed his hat and smiled gallantly—a peculiar gesture for someone who trafficked in the suffering of others.
    The magnetic door separating the reception area from the office clicked closed, leaving Victoria alone with him. She heard Gracie’s voice chattering nervously on the other side. “You don’t know how lucky you are! Those types, they don’t often do anything good. Well, you’re here now. Dios mio, you poor thing!”
    Victoria stood, anxious to follow, when the coyote grabbed her wrist.
    “Miss, about the girl. Maybe she was kidnapped—”
    She shook her wrist violently, and he let go. “Why would you think that?” It dawned on her that he might be looking for a reward for his good deed, and that maybe it wasn’t a good deed at all. “Are you asking me for—”
    “Aye, miss! If no one snatched her, maybe she’s a tourist who got lost.”
    How infuriating, his weak show of concern. “Now that you’ve dumped her on someone else, you’re worrying about her?”
    “She’s no Latina, that’s for sure. She’s no American either.
    “I seen them all, even Chinese girls trying to get across the border.”
    “I’m sure you have. It is your business, isn’t it?”
    “I tell you, that one, she’s special.” He replaced his straw cowboy hat on his head, tugging the brim down low, and stopped just inside the door. “One last thing,” he said, “she’s no so happy with being in the car. Cuidado. Be careful.” He displayed his forearms, which looked like he’d lost a fight with an alley cat; then he was gone.
    “Should I?” Gracie’s hand hovered over the phone as Victoria joined them.
    “He’s gone.” She closed the door behind her, and took a deep breath. “They won’t find him anyway.”
    Gracie slumped into a chair, made the sign of the cross, and snatched a tissue from the black leather holder on the desk’s edge to dab perspiration from her forehead and upper lip. “You don’t pay me enough for this.”
    “Are you hurt?” Victoria asked the girl while beginning to give her a good once-over. Her exotic beauty belonged on a runway—high cheekbones, a long neck, and an elegant straight nose. Though her heavy black eyeliner was horribly smeared, no shame could be found in her golden eyes; nothing indicated that the coyote had raped her or mistreated her, as they often did. She was dressed for summer in a white linen sheath and gold leather sandals; her hair, darker than espresso, fell, tangled, to her waist. The fact that she wore no rings or earrings added credibility to the coyote’s statement that she was not Mexican. She had several large scrapes on her legs, probably from her time in the desert.
    Gracie sat down next to her on the sofa. “Do you speak English?” Gracie probed gently.