Chirbampo isn’t the end of the earth, it just feels that way. The winding road that descends into the mining town also rises out again, snaking up the almost-vertical back wall of the canyon, following the silicious ore veins even deeper into the mountains. The only thing that ends are the guardrails. From this point on, there’s nothing but sheer cliff faces waiting at the edge of the pavement. Below me Chirbampo is dwindling faster in elevation than distance. Suddenly my ribcage feels too small for my heart and lungs. I drive slowly and try not to look down whenever a change in topography takes the Explorer to the outside lane.

In the passenger seat Nooshin is a storm cloud of dark billowing hair. She’s got her window rolled down, proving to me that she can almost touch the canyon wall creeping past. “See? Look at — omigod!” Her outstretched hand recoils into the cab. She sits there, caramel skin blanched almost pale, her flat chest heaving into the seatbelt.

I glance in the rearview mirror at the jutting rock that almost lopped off her arm. “I told you so.”

“I know, I know,” she sighs.

There’s a distracted pause while I navigate a hairpin switchback. Nooshin composes herself and starts messing with the car stereo. A recent development. I used to have two sacrosanct responsibilities in the truck — driving, and choosing the soundtrack for that driving. But now she’s sneakily taking over the music, the same way she sneakily rezoned her bedroom as the “office” and never left my bed again. This girl got under my skin, and into my head, and through my ribcage — and now she’s making herself an immutable part of my life. I’d be annoyed as hell if I didn’t love it this much.

Like, goddamnit.

If I didn’t like it this much.

“Wow. There’s sure a lot of…” Nooshin frowns sourly. “I forgot the word already. What are they called again, those little crosses on the side of the road?”

“Descansos,” I say through clenched teeth, muscling the truck around another curve fringed with empty space.

Every rocky shoulder is dotted with descansos — literally “resting places” in Spanish. The roadside crosses and memorials commemorate loved ones, who apparently die in droves on this heart attack of a road. The mayor of Chirbampo crashed into one of these ravines, a drunken flaming demise already marked by an ostentatious descanso.

Finally we reach our destination, the first turnoff, a well-worn gravel road leading to the silver mine known as the Prieto. The mineshaft and its outbuildings are lost somewhere behind a line of lumpy hills. All we can see is a ragged picket line of women strung across the road leading to the mine, sitting on folding chairs or lying on blankets. A jeep in company colors is parked on one side of the road, its security guard occupants dozing. I pull off on the opposite shoulder, triangulating between the picket line and jeep, keeping an impartial distance from both, not taking sides.

Bored faces watch us get out and stretch in the patchy sunshine. Nothing happens until Nooshin fumbles her antique Polaroid camera out of her purse. Then everybody stirs from their inactivity. The women grab their banners and placards and stand up to start an anti-company chant. The security guards get out of their jeep, put on their sunglasses, and look menacing.

“Are they doing this for us?” she asks, leaning against her door, fiddling with the camera.

“Yeah. For anybody who comes along. Especially agents of the federal government.” I jump up and settle myself on the Explorer’s hood. The ass-heat from the engine feels good in the cool mountain air. “This strike is the reason Senor Reyes is in prison awaiting trial. One of the reasons, anyway.”

Nooshin snaps a picture and flutters her wrist to develop it. “What do you mean?”

“Mining is considered a vital economic sector, so the Mexican government tries to protect it from disruptions. When there’s a strike, the government pays the mining company a strike subsidy for lost production. Senor Reyes figured out that the subsidy is more lucrative than operating the mine, and definitely better than shutting it down. So he convinced his miners to go on strike.”

She’s intrigued now, the camera dangling forgotten by her jeaned thigh. “He wanted his own workers to go on strike?”

“That’s the other genius part of Senor Reyes’ scam. You see all those women? They don’t work at the mine. They’re the wives of the striking miners, who found other employment a long time ago. But the union pays a strike benefit if the workers maintain the strike and keep picketing, so the miners send their wives instead. This pays better than any job they can find in town.”

“No one wants the strike to end? Senor Reyes and the miners and their wives, they just keep on like this for…years?” Nooshin raises a slender hand to cut me off, then uses it to pin bangs behind her ear. “Let me say it this time — only in Mexico, man!”

I nod tightly, aware of the scrutiny of the picket line. The women have stopped chanting and are patiently waiting for us to finish our conversation. When I wave at them, they all wave back. Careful to maintain my impartiality, I turn to wave at the security guards. They’re leaning against their jeep, heads tipped together in conversation. They nod at me, all macho-like. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a doctoral dissertation in their faces, in their circumstances, and it’s probably a better one than the piece of shit I’m starting to bang out on my laptop using the Korea Textile maquiladora archive.