The morning has turned on that invisible pivot between dawn and noon. Last thing I remember was Nick calling out “See you later!” and the squeaky brakes of his truck backing into the street. Then I fell asleep again. Now I can hear the periodic rumble of jets scraping the roof, traffic humming on the asphalt roads and shuddering on the gravel ones, dogs barking in the dirt and dust. I blow out a deep breath and watch flies buzz overhead.

Another day that begins like this, with me sleeping in late. My body is still healing from Saman’s punches and my fencing-climbing fall. I roll out of my sleeping bag and glance around a bedroom lit with ambient daylight. The only decor is my makeshift bed and a few things — backpack lying open, several bags with new clothes inside, the Tijuana newspaper I was reading to practice my Spanish but rolled up into a flyswatter.

I pad across the bare cement into the bathroom, where I force myself to stare into the so-called mirror, just a small reflective tile above the sink. A scrawny girl with matted hair stares back at me, eyes flat as oilstains in her tired face. Her tanktop is soaked with sweat. The “I (heart) MANGA” graphic across the front is barely distorted by the bumps of her chest. The girl looks as if she forgot how to smile.

Then I realize I’m only seeing the girl in the mirror because the bathroom light turned on. Electricity, yaayyy! My counterpart in the mirrored tile is flickering out of stoic exhaustion, her face brightening as if Nick just cracked a joke. She didn’t forget how to smile after all.

It’s amazing how much happiness you can fit into a little thing, like pulling a light cord — and having the bulb arc to life. I run around the house, plugging in the television and the DVD player hooked to it. Recharging the batteries we’ve gone through. And omigod, using the stove’s burners and oven.

But I’m already late for today’s agenda — exploring the neighborhood on my own. Yesterday Nick gave me a tour of Colonia Aviacion and showed me how to find my way back to the house. Now it’s my turn to prove that I’m no longer the Nooshin who hid inside her fears and insecurities during those five years with Saman. I’m going to show Nick that I’m girlpower personified. I’ll even draw my own conclusions about Colonia Aviacion thankyouverymuch, and decide which locals are worth befriending or avoiding all by myself.

The only thing that scares me about outside is the dogs. Mangy feral things that scrounge through garbage and chase cars and snarl at people. The only dog I knew growing up was a slavering mastiff in Long Beach, which may explain why perros scare the poop out of me. Luckily I have pepper spray on my keychain. I don’t know if anyone has ever maced an attacking canine before, or if pepper spray even works on dogs, but carrying it around makes me feel better.

I emerge into a warm overcast noon, old Polaroid camera in one hand, mace keychain in the other. I stand in the patchy sunshine for a while, just soaking up the freedom. For the first time I’m not seeing the mishmash of housing, handbuilt shacks next to palatial stucco homes next to fenced-in junky lots where the cardboard boxes may be inhabited instead of discarded. I’m seeing a place where I can go in any direction I want.

First I walk north to the border fence, a strangely pathetic sheaf of corrugated aluminum that peels back in places, revealing the sliced chainlink fencing underneath. No wonder impoverished Mexicans trickle down this road and gather here at sunset, all their worldly possessions on their backs. It’s easy to get through, if not across.

Then I turn around and retrace my steps toward the main drag, slowly realizing that my casual use of “blocks” to describe the distance along this street isn’t correct. The houses just kind of spill into each other, and what I thought were side streets are actually the occasional driveway or deadend alley, as I discover when I explore one.

Backtracking to the street, I have my first encounter with the local dogs. A couple of them trot past with tongues hanging out, kicking up little plumes of dust with their paws, not even turning my direction. I breath a sigh of relief so huge it almost hurts.

That’s when it hits me — the neighborhood is utterly deserted. Those dogs are the only sign of life. I haven’t seen a single person, not a single vehicle in motion. Everyone is somewhere else — or just terrified of the ungodly tall girl with the evil eye. In their absence the neighborhood has become an oasis of peace and quiet. Except for the stupid planes thundering overhead.

The main drag is just a bigger and broader variation on the same old gravel road. Its expanse is almost funereal. I pause to watch a towering dust plume draw closer and closer, until it resolves into a dump truck. The driver stares at me through his dirty windshield, mouth hanging open a little. Apparently he’s wondering how a solitary gringa managed to wander this far from the tourist district.

Feeling more confident now, I head for the corner store, an unmistakable landmark because of its exterior — bright yellow cinderblocks fading to the color of pee. A couple plastic patio tables and chairs sit outside the front door, unoccupied in the blotchy sun. Inside is a claustrophobic melange of shelves crowded with colorful boxes, glass-fronted refrigerator cabinets placed weirdly, barrels of fresh fruits and vegetables, pinatas dangling from the ceiling so low I have to duck. I can barely turn around in the aisles, they’re so narrow. Beneath my Nikes is a floor of perilous linoleum, heaving and cracked.

I don’t buy anything because I didn’t bring money to buy anything. I exit practicing a checkout conversation in my head, prepping for the time when I’ll actually make a purchase using Mexican pesos. The shopkeeper is a graying spindle of a woman watching a telenovela — soap opera — on a tiny black-and-white TV. She doesn’t make eye contact with me, doesn’t even reply when I say “Buenas tardes!”

On my way home I find a half-dead dog flopped against an alley wall. A plastic bag of snack crackers is tucked beneath her snout. She looks self-reliant and pathetic at the same time. Bending over her, I realize she’s just a puppy, really. She doesn’t even have the strength to open her eyes when I pet her, smoothing the garbage out of her coat. I want to bundle her into my arms and carry her home, oh god I want to…

But I don’t. Nick wouldn’t stand for it. He’d point out all the other starving mangy dogs that need befriending. He’d ask me where I was going to get the bucks for dogchow and veterinarian care and blah blah blah. He’d launch into his cruelly pragmatic speech about how Mexico is a developing country, a Darwinian crucible, and you sink or swim. Talking about the puppy, all the feral dogs in general, but maybe me too.