Veracruz is like nowhere I’ve been in Mexico, a Caribbean port city of broad streets and even broader sidewalks. The whitewashed buildings seem stranded on their spacious blocks, like ships of colonial architecture — arched porticoes, wrought-iron balconies, crenelated rooflines — adrift in lawn and flowerbeds. Everywhere I look there are palm trees with white-painted trunks. Just a few blocks down are the docks, where towering gantry cranes clank and grind in endless labor, and giant container ships with strange flags bleed rust from their portholes. Overshadowed next to them is a weathered stone fortress that sprawls into the gulf, guarding the harbor with empty gunpits, immaculately landscaped with flowering shrubs and a tourist bridge that soars across a reflecting moat. Past another set of docks I can see the beach, a pearly lip dotted with straw-roofed pavilions.

Next to me Nick is striding briskly despite the atrocious heat. Sweatstains are spreading from his armpits down the logo of his powder blue UCLA t-shirt. His cellphone is pinned to an ear, the upraised elbow dripping a rivulet of sweat. He’s chatting amiably with a telephone representative of the Mexican national healthcare system, finding out how much it would cost for me to get health insurance. Can’t have a baby without it…

He briefly tilts the phone away from his mouth. “I’m on hold,” he whispers, even though dock equipment is pounding in the background. “Veracruz was the first Spanish settlement on the North American landmass, way back in 1519. Hernan Cortes called it La Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, ‘The Rich Town of the True Cross’. There’s the future of the Spanish empire for you, predicted in a name. Gold and God — in that order, baby!”

I nod miserably beneath a swamp of damp hair. You can see every contour of my weird pregnancy — stubbornly nonexistent boobs, swelling tummy — through my sweat-plastered sundress. My oversized runner’s watch is a black heatsink scorching my wrist. Even my strappy sandals feel mushy, as if the wedge heels are melting.

Nick’s icy blue eyes are the only cool relief in sight. “Keep drinking water,” he encourages me, gesturing at my fourth — fifth? — bottle of Agua Pura, and goes back to his conversation.

Dutifully I take another gulp. All this water and I still haven’t had to pee, it just keeps leaking out my pores. At the end of the street is the Gulf of Mexico, warm as blood. I find myself glancing over my shoulder, wondering how far we’ve walked. My heart puddles when I realize it’s only been a couple blocks. I can still see the shiny colorful lot of the Ford dealership, where we dropped off the Explorer hoping they can replace the engine. Nick claims the dealership is one of the oldest in Mexico, and I believe him. There’s a vintage Model T in the showroom and framed black-and-white pictures of mustachioed bandidos on the walls.

Nick’s voice is suddenly incredulous, then hectoring, then resigned. He snaps the cellphone shut. “Well THAT fucking sucks.”

“What?” I ask.

“You could get on the Mexican national healthcare plan no problem, only a couple hundred bucks a year, but get this — they don’t cover pregnancy until your third year of enrollment.”

I can’t think very well when I feel like a frying egg. “But…but…the baby will be born by then!” I finally realize.

“Yeah. Exactly.” Nick wrings out his Kogal hat with violent strangling motions, then slaps it back onto his balding head. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”

“Well, medical care is really cheap here. We only paid $20 for my exam back in Guanajuato, remember? How much do you think it costs to have a baby?”

“$2,000 at one of the private hospitals in Tijuana. I already checked.”

“$2,000? Holy crap!” I stumble, more from panic than my awkwardly high heels, and grab onto his slick arm. “Nick! $2,000!”

He pauses to help me regain my balance. “It’s cheaper at a public hospital, but they have year-long waiting lists. Hey, no crying. You know me, right? I’ll think of something. I always think of something.” The handsome angles of his face don’t know how to align. They keep shifting between confidence and uncertainty.

Distraught, I wander into the shade of a courtyard, where a bronze sculpture of leaping dolphins is surrounded by fragrant bougainvillea and a single wooden bench. It’s probably someone’s front yard, but I don’t care. I collapse onto the bench and bury my face in my hands.

“Hey. Nooshin.” Nick touches my bare shoulder, a gesture that almost scalds in this heat. “Hey.”

I peek through my fingers at those muscular calves, at those well-worn hiking boots. His leg hair is matted with trickles of sweat. “What?” I almost shriek.

“Relax, would you? It’s going to be okay.”

“Okay? It’s going to be okay?” I stare up at him in disbelief, my heart thumping in terror. “I’m going to have this baby in our house in Tijuana, and YOU’RE going to deliver it!”

Nick retreats hastily. “Well, we could get a midwife. That’s how most Mexican babies are born, at home with a midwife.” He seems to turn inward, considering it.

“Most Mexican babies are born at home with a midwife because this is a developing country! Everyone would go to a hospital if they could afford it!”

“But — ”

“I’m having my baby in a hospital with an obstetrician and a maternity ward and an epidural and EVERYTHING I NEED!” I want to yell at him some more, just so he’s super duper clear on that point, but I’m too breathless and panting.

He sits down heavily on the bench beside me. “Maybe we can save up the money. A couple hundred out of my funding each month, a couple hundred out of your paycheck. We could get to $2,000 by October.”

“How? By not getting your truck fixed? By not eating? We don’t make enough money. Seriously, we just don’t.” Salty tears are stinging my eyes. I lean over and wipe them away with the sleeve of Nick’s t-shirt. “Do you think I could get a job back in Tijuana? Or maybe in San Diego and commute across the border? A job with health insurance?”

His profile is grim. “Even if you could find a job with health insurance, they wouldn’t have to cover the pregnancy. No American insurer would.”

“What? How could they get away with that? My pregnancy is a preexisting condition, right? I thought there’s a federal law about preexisting conditions, a law that, that…” My voice trails off. I don’t know enough to keep talking.

“There is a law. It’s called HIPPO or HIPPA or something like that. But it’s fucking swiss cheese. Full of loopholes for the insurance industry. Like, they don’t have to cover your preexisting condition if you were previously uninsured.” Nick shrugs miserably. “UCLA always warns us about it — don’t let your insurance lapse, because preexisting conditions won’t be covered when you re-enroll.”

We’re stranded in a dreary silence that pours over us like the heat. Overhead a window squeaks open and a voice bellows down at us. I’m too distracted to translate the Spanish. I just crane my neck backwards, until I’m tilting back at an upside-down face. The man is surly and big-looking, with features set like oases in his wide cheeks and broad forehead — pinprick eyes, a tiny yelling mouth. Suddenly the yelling stops. Noticing my crooked wandering eye, the Evil Eye to superstitious Mexicans, he hurriedly crosses himself and retreats back inside, leaving us alone in his front yard.