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can’t sleep.”
    She rubbed her eyes. “Do you want me to come with you?”
    â€œNo. Get some sleep.”
    â€œOkay.” She rolled back over. I grabbed the room key, stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, and then walked downstairs to the lobby. There was now a young Mexican woman at the front desk. I nodded as I walked past.
    â€œ Buenas noches ,” she said.
    â€œYeah, buenas noches ,” I replied, which is about all I remembered from eighth-grade Spanish.
    I walked out into the warm night air. The small town was asleep, and the only sound was that of crickets and the occasional howl of a dog or coyote. I looked around, then walked out to the main road and back toward the U.S. border.
    Even though there were no streetlamps, the moon was bright enough to see where I was going. Normally I would have been worried that someone might notice my glow, but I didn’t care about that right now. The truth was, I didn’t care much about anything. My mind was too preoccupied by other emotions. In six hours I’d know the truth about my mother. I was already in so much pain that I couldn’t even imagine how the truth would affect me. What if I found her body? I didn’t know if I could live with that.
    I walked about three blocks from the hotel, turning at a road sign that read CALLE HILDAGO near some kind of weird monument in thecenter of the road—a stucco and concrete slab adorned with the plaster bust of a man wearing a bow tie. Several old pickup trucks were parked up against the curb, and as I walked around them, I saw a group of young Mexican men. A gang. They immediately started walking toward me.
    â€œ Güero! ” one of them shouted.
    I counted seven guys, all a little older than me. Three of them carried bottles of beer, and two of them were probably drunk, as they were wobbling a little. Three of them wore white tank tops, and one wore a T-shirt that read:
    I got caught trying to cross
    the border, and all I got was
    this lousy T-shirt
    Three had no shirts at all, exposing myriad gang tattoos that covered their arms and backs. The one who seemed to be the leader, the tallest of the group, said, “ ¿Qué estás haciendo en nuestra ciudad? ”
    The man next to him with a bottle said, “ Está caminando en nuestra calle .”
    I looked back and forth between them. “I don’t speak Spanish.”
    I didn’t know whether they understood me or not, but they all laughed. The tall man nodded. “No worry, gringo . I speak English. Bad news for you. We will take your money. And your watch.”
    â€œI’m not giving you anything,” I said. “Just leave me alone.” I turned away from them.
    â€œÂ¿Qué dijo?”
    â€œDijo déjame en paz.”
    As I was walking away from them, an empty beer bottle hit me on the side of my head. Fortunately, it wasn’t a direct hit, or it probably would have knocked me out. Instead, it caught me in the back of my jaw, cutting the skin beneath my ear. I spun around. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to fry them all to ashes. “Who threw that?” I shouted.
    They looked at one another, coolly, smiling. Then the shortest ofthem motioned to himself with both hands. “Lo hice yo, güero. Ven por mí.”
    I didn’t know what he said, but he wore a big, stupid grin. Then I noticed that he was blinking wildly, imitating my facial tics. I wanted to melt his face.
    â€œYou have five seconds to run away,” I said. I thought about what Spanish I knew and said, “ Cinco secondi vámonos! ”
    They all burst out laughing. Then two of the guys pulled out switchblades. The one closest to me said, “ Vamos a cortar ese güero. ”
    â€œMy friends do not like you, gringo ,” the tall one said. “They want to cut you.” The gang fanned out, forming a near circle around me. “. . . And then we take your