the next curve, the headlights of the vehicle behind her reflected off a hillside and she clearly saw the Trans Am, riding low and sleek on good tires, the engine powerful and loud and steady. She mashed on the gas, but her vehicle did not accelerate. Instead, the pistons misfired, and a balloon of black oil smoke exploded out of the exhaust pipe. She felt as though she were in a bad dream in which she knew she had to run from an enemy but her legs were knee-deep in mud.

What a fool she had been. Why hadn’t she confronted the two men in front of Junior and dealt with them in front of the diner, even called the cops if she had to?

She flipped open her cell phone on her thigh, trying with her thumb to punch in the diner’s number. Up ahead, she saw the Nissan parked on the side of the road, the hatch open, the father of the three-month-old baby girl on his knees, pushing a jack under the rear bumper.

She slowed and pulled in behind him. He stared up into her high beams, his face white, distorted, his eyes watering, his narrow head and long nose and greased hair like those of a man who was out of sync with his own era, a man for whom loss was a given and ineptitude a way of life. She left the parking lights on and cut the engine.

The Trans Am streaked past her, the bearded passenger giving her a double thumbs-up, his friend in the top hat bent hard over the wheel.

But the driver of the Nissan was concentrated on Vikki, still looking up at her, blinking, his eyes straining in the darkness. “Who are you?” he said.

“I saw you at the diner. You needed milk for your little girl. Are you all right?”

She was standing directly over him. He had spread a handkerchief on the gravel to kneel on but had not taken off his coat. He had just placed the jack under the rear of the car frame, but neither of the back tires appeared to be flat.

“I think I got a bubble in my tire. I could hear it slapping. They do that sometimes when they’re fixing to blow,” he said. He got to his feet, brushing at one knee. “Problem is, I forgot I don’t have a spare.” Because of the grease in his hair, it looked wet-combed and shiny on his collar, as though he had just emerged from a fresh shower. There were soft lumps in his facial skin, similar in size to the bites of horseflies. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty road. In the distance, a pair of high beams bounced off a hillside into the sky. “We’re at the Super 8 in town. My wife probably thinks I got kidnapped. My sister’s husband has a shoe store in Del Rio. I’m supposed to go to work for him day after tomorrow.”

He waited for her to speak. The stars were smoky, like dry ice evaporating on black velvet, the wind starting to gust through an arroyo behind her. She thought she could smell night-blooming flowers, water braiding along the edge of a bleached riverbed, an alluvial fan of damp sand cut by the hoofprints and the clawed feet of animals.

“Ma’am?” he said.

She couldn’t concentrate. What was he asking her? “Do you want a ride to your motel?” she said.

“Maybe I can make it. It was you I was worried about.”

“Pardon?”

“I got the sense those fellows in the Trans Am were hassling you. You know those fellows? That was them that roared on by, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know who they are. Do you want a ride?”

What had he just said? He had asked about the two men in the Trans Am, but he had been looking at her, not them, when they passed. He seemed to be thinking now, with an expression like that of a fool humorously considering his alternatives at someone else’s expense. The headlights that had silhouetted a hill in the distance disappeared, and the outline of the hill dissolved into the darkness. “I can limp in with this tire as it is, I guess. But it’s kind of you to stop. You’re mighty attractive. Not many women traveling alone would stop on the road at night to help a man in distress.”

“I hope your new job works out all right for you,” she said. She turned and walked toward her vehicle. She could