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He touches a finger to his temple. “Where yesterday lives.”
    I frown in puzzlement, and the old man leans forward and deftly flips a tortilla on his makeshift griddle.
    â€œYou are like children, niños , you white men. You need everything explained. Your meeting in my cave with Perdido, it exists no more. It was only real when you were face to face. It is gone now and cannot be recaptured. It lives only in your head. It has become a story. Part of your story, and of Perdido’s.
    â€œYou are now the guardian of that story. You may tell it. You may change it. It does not matter; it is your story now. But with stories comes responsibility. The past, el pasado , exists only in our stories. Change the story and you change the past. Stories are the only way the past can live; that is their power. Do not ask for or tell them lightly.
    â€œCan you read words?” he asks abruptly.
    â€œYes,” I reply.
    â€œAnd write words?”
    I nod.
    â€œThat is good. Stories become more real if they are written on paper. I have a story written on paper.”
    â€œ Moby Dick ,” I say. “I saw it in your cave.”
    â€œI am told it is of a sea monster and the man who searches for it.”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œAnd that it begins with a name.”
    â€œIt does. Ishmael.”
    â€œThat is good,” the old man says thoughtfully. “Names are important. But it is time to eat,” he says, lifting two large, flat pieces of thick bark from beside the fire. “Good stories are best told on a full belly.”
    The old man concentrates on spooning beans onto the pieces of bark. He adds tortillas to each and passes one over to me. I watch and try to copy as he deftly wraps the tortilla round the beans and eats. My eating is much messier, but the food tastes good.
    We eat in silence until the pot of beans is empty and wiped clean with the last of the tortillas. Then the old man pours a black liquid into a tin mug. It is the only mug he has and so we share. The coffee is bitter, but I feel restored by the hot drink.
    â€œNow we must know each other,” the old man says, sitting back. He pulls a tobacco pouch from his belt, undoes the neck and pours some dark leaves onto a torn piece of an old newspaper. He rolls it, twists the two ends and places one end in his mouth. Reaching forward, he plucks a burning stick from the fire, tilts his head to one side and lights the other end of his cigarette. He puffs and looks at me.
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    â€œMy name is James Doolen,” I reply.
    â€œHmmm. This name, James Doolen.” The old man says my name slowly, savoring the sounds. “What does it mean?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never thought about it. I don’t think it means anything.”
    â€œThen it is not a name,” he scoffs and takes a long drag on his cigarette. “A name must have meaning or it is nothing. If you do not have a name, then you have no center, and if you have no center, then how can you know where you are or where you are going?
    â€œI gave Perdido his name when he became my friend. It was my gift to him in exchange for his helmet. Do you know what it means?”
    Suddenly I realize I do know what it means. “Lost.”
    The old man smiles.
    â€œExactly. Perdido is lost, to his family, his compadres, his world. Now, I will give you a real name.” He tilts his head and stares at me until I begin to feel uncomfortable. Eventually he says, “From now on you shall be Busca.”
    â€œBusca,” I try out the sound. “What does it mean?”
    â€œI think that you are searching for something,” the old man says. “In Perdido’s language, uno quien busca is one who seeks; therefore, you shall be Busca.”
    â€œThank you,” I say, strangely pleased with my new name. “What is your name?”
    â€œIf you live as many years as I, you collect many