500 years ago Hernan Cortes, the most legendary of Spain’s conquistadores, was asked to describe this land called Mexico that he had subjugated. What was this vast new world like? Cortes crumpled up a piece of parchment, then spread it out again. “Como eso!” — like that! — he explained.

That’s why there is no fast driving across my road atlas of Mexico. The thick green lines indicating highways are few and far between, dwindling into the thin red lines of paved roads that meander and twist with the topography, and finally the gray-and-white dotted lines of gravel tracks that fan into the mountains and die. Especially here in backcountry Sinaloa, which is dominated by the Sierra Madre Occidentals and its subranges. This chain of crags is named Los Frailes — The Friars — in one of those mysteries of Mexican cartography. Their shattered outlines pile up against the horizon, a ramp of ghostly shadows calving in the moonlight.

The cab of the Explorer looks like a landfill — churrito wrappers, empty Diet Coke cans, styrofoam cups that used to contain coffee. Nooshin is lying across the front seat, covered by a quilted blanket, head in my lap, fast asleep. Tijuana is three days and two states behind us, our destination lies somewhere in the mountains ahead. Glazed with exhaustion, I keep blinking the winding potholed road into focus, keep yanking the wheel back and forth in time to the guardrails. Finally the truck’s hi-beams crest into blackness and I look down on Chirbampo, a small town cupped in hands of sheer rock. The moonlit pueblo looks exactly like it did in a grainy black-and-white photograph taken in 1910, the eve of the Mexican Revolution. I’m used to this. Historical vertigo happens a lot in Mexico.

We drop through crowding hills half-eaten by dynamite and stamping mills. Four centuries of silver mining have made a toothy dent in the mountains, but unlike everybody else we’re not here for the ore. We’re here because the family that owned the Korea Textile maquiladora lives in Chirbampo, and countless residents left this tired mining town to work for the family in Tijuana. Maybe I’ll gain access to the half of the archive comprised by tax records, now embargoed in the municipal jail. Maybe I’ll land an interview with the former family ownership. Maybe I’ll discover the man-bites-dog angle I’m seeking for my dissertation.

We bounce around in the cab as the Explorer rattles across cobblestones. My headlights sweep the empty streets, occasionally reflecting a pair of nightmarish animal eyes. At intersections the side streets pass like pitch black cutouts. Back in Los Mochis a truckdriver recommended the Hotel Independencia, which turns out to be a stucco monstrosity in the colonial district. It looks as timeless as the rim of shadowy peaks.

I park the truck on the street and stare down at Nooshin. Her delicate features are etched with the exhaustion of long days on the road and short nights in the tent, hair a wild mess, no makeup. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so beautiful.

And apparently I fall asleep in that position, contemplating my caramel-skinned angel with the halo of dust-streaked hair, because next thing I know I’m shuddering with hypothermia and the steering wheel is making a painful dent in my forehead. I grab her wrist and squeeze the button on her runner’s watch that makes the oversized digits light up. 3:11 AM. Long enough for the frigid mountain air to seep into the cab.

“Hey. Nooshin. Wake up.”

She sits up blearily, dark eyes barely open. Her teeth are chattering loud enough for me to hear. Twisting slowly, she takes in the strange surroundings. “Are we here?”

“Yeah,” I say, opening my door and letting the night pour in. “Come on.”

I sling our backpacks over my shoulder and grab the suitcase, then lead the way inside. She follows still huddled in the blanket, shivering violently. The only illumination is a fluorescent light fixture dotted with fly carcasses, shining weakly on the deserted front desk. A hand-lettered sign says TOME UNA LLAVE — take a key. I snag 301 off the key rack and urge her up three flights of stairs to a spartan hotel room that’s a few degrees warmer than sleeping outdoors. I dump our stuff in one of the four empty corners and check the window, convinced it must be open. It’s not.

Behind me Nooshin’s sandals thump to the floor as she kicks them off. Her hapless shuddering is making the bed vibrate when I sit down on the edge. Underneath the covers I discover her still fully dressed — or as fully dressed as you can be in a baby-t and capris, anyway. Despite her tired protestations I strip her naked, flinging her clothes into the dark, then rotate her in my arms so we can spoon for warmth, fitting together like puzzle pieces.