pages. Mentioning the name of the town apparently wasnât enough to achieve the result she wanted, so she attempted more than once to ask for a ticket. Each time, the agent merely shrugged and looked blank.
Then he tried speaking to her. First he spoke slowly, then louder as if that would make her understand. After five minutes of this, she was ready to scream with frustration.
âPerhaps I can help.â
Lorraine turned to find a smiling clean-cut man standing next to her.
âJason Applebee,â he said.
âLorraine Dancy.â She held out her hand, noting that his was bandaged. âYouâre American?â
âSure am.â He grinned. âI guess thatâs fairly obvious, isnât it?â
âAnd you speak Spanish?â
âFluently.â Then, as if to prove it, he spoke to the man behind the counter. The clerk grinned, nodded and said something in return. His eyes moved to Lorraine; she couldnât miss the relief in his expression.
Lorraine didnât understand what either of them had said. By this point she was beyond translating even the simplest verbs. Jason turned to her. âNow, what were you trying to ask?â
âI need a ticket to El Mirador.â
âYouâre joking,â Jason said, his face lighting up. âIâm heading that way myself.â
âReally? I thought it was just a small town.â
âActually, Iâm going to a place not far from there. I was planning to spend the night in El Mirador.â
âYou mean thereâs a hotel?â If things didnât work outwith her father, it was reassuring to know sheâd have someplace to sleep that night.
âI guess you could call it that,â Jason said, and they both laughed.
Lorraine paid for her ticket, and Jason bought his, as well. When theyâd finished, they sat in the shade outside and waited for the bus, which was due to arrive, Jason said, in thirty minutes.
âWill you be staying at the hotel, too?â her newfound friend asked as he arranged his backpack at his feet.
âI donât know yet,â Lorraine said. It had been a long day already, with a plane change in Atlanta and a two-hour delay. âHow long will it take to reach El Mirador?â
âA couple of hours, possibly moreâif the bus doesnât break down, that is.â
âOh, great.â She sighed loudly, wondering if anything else could possibly go wrong.
âHey, it isnât so bad,â Jason said. âAt least there arenât any bandidos. Not like the dig I was on last week.â He explained that he was a part-time archaeology lecturer at a small college in Missouri; she didnât recognize the name. He was here doing research for his doctoral thesis. Heâd been in Mexico a month now, he told her, although this wasnât his first trip. Lorraine guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. He had short dark hair and the ubiquitous sunglasses, and wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt tucked neatly into khaki pants. The freshness of his clothes made Lorraine feel even more despairing about the condition of her own.
âSo you were working on this dig? Andâ¦and there were bandits?â
âYeah,â he said, lifting his bandaged hand. Jason entertained her for the next hourâthe bus was late, of courseâwith tales of his adventures, including aharrowing description of the incident during which heâd injured his hand. Heâd rescued one of the Mexican assistants on the dig from a knife-wielding pair of thieves. She shuddered at his dramatic telling.
Lorraine liked Jason. It was impossible not to. He was witty and cheerful, not to mention generous with his help. He bought some melon slices from a street vendor and shared them with her. Lorraine hadnât really been hungry, but the fruit quenched her growing thirst.
Sheâd never made friends with anyone so quickly. She suspected that everyone responded to
Alaska Angelini, A. A. Dark