Highway 550 went right through the heart of it, becoming its main street for the few blocks that separated civilization from the surrounding piñon-populated hillsides. Once south of town, 550 would pick up speed on its way to Bernalillo, a sleepy village twenty miles north of Albuquerque that clung to a Spanish past even as the suburbs of Rio Rancho encroached on its back. I pulled into a Circle K convenience store and parked in front. Kara unbuckled her seat belt. "Want anything?" she asked. "Maybe some coffee." I got out and followed her inside and while she headed for the bathrooms in the back, I went to the coffee pots and poured a medium-sized Styrofoam cup of their "house blend." Three hazelnut creamers later, I went to the counter where a dark-haired heavyset woman rang up my purchase. "Thanks," I said when she handed me my change. She nodded and went back to reading People magazine and I returned to the car and set my cup on the roof. Another seventy miles and we'd be back in Albuquerque.
