IN HER BACKPACK SHE HAD EXTRA UNDERWEAR AND SOCKS and a sweater, and she had a flashlight, her toothbrush and toothpaste, a New Testament from her mother, maps of Mexico and the United States, and she had a bottle of water and two oranges and tortillas and beans to eat on the road. She had five thousand US dollars in an envelope, which was for the man, and she had one thousand dollars wrapped in cellophane and taped to her waist. She had left the remainder with her mother. She wore around her neck the carving that Santiago had given her. She had no identification, and everything that was true about her—anything that could be known—was inside her own head. She wore dark runners and dark jeans and a dark T-shirt because this is what was advised. The T-shirt was too large but she preferred this because she didn’t want to reveal so easily that she was a woman. She wore a Giants cap, and she tucked her hair up beneath the cap so that from a distance she might appear to be a boy. They were eight, and this included the guide, who called himself Marcos.
