I hover in a thick bubble of semiconsciousness, vaguely disturbed by rustles in the background — the creak of mattress springs, a toilet flushed, bootsteps on tile — but never waking up, never sinking back into sleep. My mind is filled with shadows and shifting light, a queasy tumbling nothingworld. Eventually the background noises fade away, stranding me in my nausea.

Until they’re back again. Louder. More insistent. Clarifying into sentences like “Come on, Don Fidel is waiting for us!” and “Don’t you wanna meet the notorious Senor Reyes?”

The voice belongs to Nick. And so does the hand shaking my hip.

“Mmmumph,” I groan into the pillow.

The shaking just intensifies.

Finally I capitulate and rouse myself. It takes a superhuman effort because my limbs are leaden things, responding sluggishly. I blink at the too-familiar hotel room. Clothes are lying on the bed next to me. He already chose my outfit in hopes of hurrying me along. I struggle into hiphuggers dotted with tiny yellow lemons and my nice pair of jeans, then pull on my boucle crewneck sweater. The bra I ignore.

In the bathroom I try to brush my teeth, but the taste of toothpaste just makes me gag. I rinse out my mouth, then the sink. Straightening up I encounter my reflection. The girl in the mirror looks like she’s been violently ill for several days. No amount of face-scrubbing or hairbrushing improves her appearance. Even her crooked wandering eye — the left one in the mirror — seems wan and ill. It barely strays in its socket.

I’m halfway downstairs, carefully aiming my Nikes at one step, then the next, when I realize I shouldn’t be wearing my Nikes at all. I should be wearing the only dressy pair of shoes I own, my wedgie heels. But the prospect of turning around and fighting gravity back upstairs, that’s just too much. I keep descending.

Pulled against the curb outside is a mafiamobile, as Nick calls it — a black Lincoln Town Car, and one that’s probably older than me. The windows are all rolled down. Don Fidel and Nick are seated in the vast expanse of the back seat, laughing up a storm. Behind the steering wheel is a vaguely familiar face. He says “buenos dias” and something about how it’s good to see me again. I try to place him — is he one of Don Fidel’s son-in-laws, maybe? — but all the introductions to his relatives are just a blur now.

“Climb in!” Don Fidel throws open the door and slides over to make room for me. His cowboy boots don’t touch the floormats. I endure a cheek-peck from the diminutive figure, whose leathery face is creased in a welcoming grin. “I’m glad you can join us!”

The car shudders into motion — and almost immediately stops again. You can walk from one end of Chirbampo to the other in 15 minutes, or drive through the crowded streets in twice that.

Nick leans forward so he can look past Don Fidel, who’s sitting between us. His angular features are poignant with concern. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” I hope saying it makes it come true.

“Your wife is sick?” the shrimpy man booms. “Which end is it coming out? I’ve got a great remedy for — ”

“Don Fidel. Please.” Nick’s voice is half-plea, half-command. Then he covers the awkward moment by suggesting, “How about if you tell Nooshin where we’re going?”

“Oh! Right. Well…” He proceeds to give me a story instead of a destination, beginning with a protracted explanation of why rich Mexican families often have a private chapel. Apparently it’s like a direct phoneline to God in Catholicism. Senor Reyes has a private chapel too. In fact the only thing that’s been in his family longer than their private chapel is the Prieto mine. Today he’s commissioning a private mass in hopes of persuading God to bless him with the dismissal of all charges keeping him incarcerated. Somehow, don’t ask me how. Maybe the Catholic God likes to meddle in legal proceedings.

“If Senor Reyes is in prison awaiting trial, how does he get out?” I ask in confusion. “Do they give him a day pass or something?”

“Day pass? Day pass?” Don Fidel laughs uproariously, as if that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “No my friend, I vouched for him!”

“Vouching is a common practice in rural Mexico,” Nick explains. “If Senor Reyes doesn’t return to prison, Don Fidel will be held responsible. It’s, like, a means of institutionalizing trust.”

“Institutionalizing trust! Did you hear that, Ramon? The way these Americans talk!”

I don’t know whether the son-in-law driving the car speaks English or not. Right now he’s preoccupied with trying to keep the car in forward motion. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper, and pedestrians dart through the few remaining gaps.

We creep past a sidewalk vendor making corn tortillas. They darken on a piece of metal with an open blue flame below it. I’m impervious to their aroma — I’m breathing through my mouth to stop smells from making me nauseous — but just the sight of their browning circular shapes…

“You okay?” Nick asks, noticing the way I’m holding a hand over my mouth. When I feign okay-ness and nod, his icy blue eyes narrow in suspicion. Apparently I suck at lying.

Don Fidel is pointing with a liver-spotted hand. “Ah, we’re here.”

Here turns out to be a tiny chapel nestled in a grove of silvery-leaved Russian olives. Even though it’s right in the middle of the colonial district, I never noticed it before because it’s set behind a tall stucco wall topped with broken glass. The architecture is a mishmash of old and new. The modest dome and archways are gothic and gently curved, but the facade has been jazzed up with faux-doric columns that rise sharply and straightly.

I don’t know what I’m expecting, but the man who emerges from the dark interior of the chapel isn’t it. He’s bearish and slumping and potbellied, with a graying beard and pin-eyed stare. He wears a blue-and-white striped t-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. His huaraches are ready to fall apart on his feet. For some reason I’m saddened by the fact that his thick wrists and pudgy fingers and fleshy neck are completely bare. Not a single item of jewelry, not even a wristwatch. This is the most powerful man in Chirbampo, owner of the famed Prieto silver mine, and he doesn’t have a single token of his greatness.

Well, except for the brand-new Mercedes parked next to the chapel.

The usual ritualistic greeting occurs. Don Fidel scuttles over and embraces him, the kind of hello that involves an odd mixture of macho backslapping and dainty cheek-kissing. Then he extends a shriveled arm toward us. “These are the Americans I was telling you about. The talk of the town!”

“The talk of the town,” Senor Reyes echoes coldly, running that creepy gaze over us.

“Senor,” Nick says, turning on his megawatt grin. But even his enthusiasm can’t make their handshake more than tepid. “I can’t tell you what an honor — ”

“Don’t look at me again!” the silver baron snarls, crossing himself.

It’s painfully obvious who he’s talking to. Me and my mal ojo — evil eye. “Sorry,” I murmur in the direction of my Nikes, feeling even worse than sick and tired now.

Senor Reyes’ shadow is motioning impatiently for Nick to follow him. “Let’s get this over with.” Their shadows merge into the bigger shadow of the chapel, and I hear ancient floorboards creak under their weight. The shadows on the ground begin revolving around me, slowly and then quickly, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight to make the spinning stop, except it’s the sounds that stop instead, and suddenly I’m weightless — but only for a moment, until I thud to the gravel.