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I met her on the highway. Specifically on the 101, along the central coast of California in a rest area just north of Morro Bay. She told me her name was Maria but that everyone called her Soledad. She was probably in her 60’s and she was a very grand lady.

You could tell by the way she carried herself,

The way she presented herself to the world around her.

She may have been from Quintana Roo. I don’t remember where exactly.

“I had to absquatulate from my country,” she told me, “My husband, Camilo, was a ranking member of the ruling party who was caught with his hand in the till, and we had to come to California. We feared for our lives.”

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“He did not survive the trip,” she replied, “we were bushwhacked in Loreto and he was killed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I replied,” and yet, you carry on? Undeterred? Are you on a mission now?”

“I fear for my life.” she told me. “I must put great distance between myself and Quintana Roo. If I am found, I will surely be put to death. Are you looking for work? Do you need a job? I need a bodyguard.”

“I am sorry, Soledad, I’m an old man. I could not be an effective bodyguard.”

She said nothing. Just stared into my eyes, “Do you have a son?” she asked, “Someone like yourself? I can see in your eyes that you would be a fierce protector.”

We sat together in silence at the small picnic shelter till dawn.