If I could do it all over again, I’d tell Nick sorry, forget it, I’m staying here forever. I don’t care if I give birth on the air mattress on Inez’s mom’s floor. Anything is better than risking the traffic of Mexico City. It wasn’t bad an hour before dawn, when I said goodbye to Inez and her mom. The streets of their neighborhood were deceptively quiet then. But the further I drove in Nick’s truck, the more taillights appeared in front of me, the more headlights filled my rearview mirror. Now the sun is up and the streets of Mexico City are half parking lot, half race track, and all war zone. If Nick loved me even a little bit, he’d fly back down here and drive me out of this mess, the same way he drove me into it.

My cellphone shrieks to life, a plain ringtone at max volume. Otherwise I can’t hear it over all the honking and engine noise and traffic cop whistles.

“Hi.” The only greeting I can manage. I’m focused on everything all at once — the huge golden -RONA- of a Corona delivery truck boxing me in, street vendors pushing carts through the idling traffic, all the street signs and their stupid contradictory arrows.

Nick’s voice is deliberately calm. “Heya babe. Where you at now?”

“Not much farther than the last time you called.”

“How much farther?” he asks, still calm. Soothing. “Got a cross-street for me?”

“There’s a gigantic traffic circle up ahead. Avenida Insurgentes, I think. It’s got a 10-story winged statue thing in the middle.” My heart sinks. Vehicles revolve around the statue’s base in brutal honking combat. Omigod, I hate traffic circles. Hate hate hate them! “Who invented traffic circles, anyway? Who could’ve possibly thought traffic circles are — ”

Suddenly all the vehicles around me lurch forward. I’m only a heartbeat late on the gas pedal — but that’s all the delay it takes. A green-and-white Volkswagen Bug taxi angles in front of me. Then another one, darting after the first. My hood and its passenger door are on a collision course. I brake and yell at the driver in Farsi until I feel better.

“What’s going on?” Nick asks, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. And failing, mostly.

“Taxis just cut in front of me! Again!”

“Remember what I told you.”

I slump in defeat. “I know, I know. Stay on the bumper in front of me.”

“And what else?” he prods.

“Anticipate. Or…be an asshole? Something like that.”

Nick’s laugh is forced. “Close enough.”

The next time traffic moves I’m ready. Anticipating. Ready to be an asshole, just like all the assholes around me. I snap forward in a 20-yard drag race — that turns into wide-open asphalt, when I drive through a gap between two electric buses, dawdling in a shower of sparks from the overhead wires. There’s nothing between me and the traffic circle ahead, yaayyy! Go me, go me, go –

STOP!!!

A kid carrying a shoulder-rack of pinatas darts into the street RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. I stand on the brakes and yank the steering wheel hard left, away from the curb and into oncoming traffic, tires squealing, omigod omigod…

Then I’m past the kid and yanking the Explorer back onto my side of the boulevard, but too sharply, the cityscape goes all wrong, the truck tilting, I must be on two wheels — and then a jarring impact, the seatbelt grating across my clavicle, back on all four wheels again.

Holy crap! I’m already at the traffic circle, plunging right into the slowly-rotating wall of vehicles, the stink of graphite and burning tires filling my nostrils, but not stopping fast enough, another green-and-white VW Bug taxi dead ahead, there’s nowhere to turn, I can’t avoid —

A sea parts for me. I screech to a halt in the milling traffic, prompting a few tepid honks. In my rearview mirror the taxi driver is busy chatting with his passengers. They just witnessed an out-of-control SUV almost kill a street vendor, then almost swerve into a head-on collision with onrushing traffic, then almost flip over in a flaming ball of metal and flesh, then almost plow into a jam-packed traffic circle. Just another day on the streets of Mexico City.

My cellphone is squawking somewhere on the floor. I lean down to pick it up, squeezing around my pregnant tummy. I pin the silver clamshell to my ear, breathing heavily.

“Nooshin! What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

Tears are blurring my vision. “I’ve almost run over so many people, they just, god…”

“The street vendors. I know. They’re fucking maniacs. Are you using your horn?”

“Um…” I start to say. Truth is, I’ve forgotten all about it.

“Come on. You gotta use it. Anytime you go fast — ”

“Okay, okay! I’ll remember to use it next time. Promise.”

He gives my right ear a pep talk while I paw at my cheeks, wiping them dry. The Explorer goes into a vehicular spin cycle, revolving in the traffic circle. Instead of the convenience and sanity of a stoplight, four oncoming streams of traffic have to jostle around and through and past me. Forget progressing down the boulevard — it’s all I can do just to avoid an accident! I make one trapped circumnavigation, then another. Everywhere I look bumpers are millimeters apart. Not even a glimmer of space, no hope of escape whatsoever. I feel my pulse flutter in panic. I’m going to die of old age in this stupid traffic circle.

“No you’re not,” Nick chuckles, and I realize I was thinking aloud. “Find somebody going your direction, somebody big, and tuck in behind them. Let them do the dirty work.”

Hmmm. I glance around the traffic circle, four lanes huge but crammed with five lanes of vehicles. The biggest thing I see is a riveted silver hulk with tiny bulletproof windows. Looks like that Banamex armored truck is going my way. It bulldozes around the traffic circle, honking incessantly, even tapping a bumper or quarterpanel every now and then. I veer after it desperately — and so do about 20 other cars, thinking the same thing as me. At first none of us are going anywhere. Then suddenly we’re a jailbreak from the traffic circle.

“Nick, I made it! I made it. Omigod…” My body fizzles with relief. I briefly peel the phone away, wiping my brow with that forearm.

” — knew you’d do great,” he’s saying, when I clamp the sweaty clamshell back to my ear.

I drift down the street, impervious to a swelling chorus of honks. In my rearview mirror I can see the giant concrete calves and sandals of the winged statue in the traffic circle, forever poised to stomp us all to scrap metal. Another green-and-white taxi cuts in front of me, then another. It’s not worth racing ahead to stop them. It’s not worth it, period.

I risk a glance at the map of Mexico City lying on the passenger seat. Even though Inez illustrated my route with a fat yellow hi-liter, I’m still pretty clueless about my progress. All I know for certain is that I haven’t reached the highway yet.

Luckily I have Nick, my distant navigator in Minnesota. “If I just passed Avenida Insurgentes, how much farther is it to the highway?”

“Not much farther,” he says cheerfully. “Just stay focused on the driving. The distance will take care of itse– ”

“Nick. How much farther.”

His voice wavers. “Uh, a little ways. Not too far.”

“Nick! Just tell me!”

“Well, you’ve probably got another hour to the highway, maybe two, then…” A pause elongates in my ear. In the background I can hear beeping, raised voices, a tinny intercom — Dr. Lavell to the ICU, Dr.Lavell to the ICU. Then Nick’s voice again. “I gotta go. Call you later.”

The Explorer is stuck in gridlock again. Exhaust fumes boil up like heatwaves into the cool morning sky. A middle-aged street vendor knocks on my window, holding up a churrito in wax paper, startling me. “Desea el desayuno?” — do you want some breakfast? — he asks through the glass.

I’m left holding the phone to my ear, still listening to the buzz of my severed connection with Nick. I try to imagine him saying goodbye to Brian, but it doesn’t work. In that hospital bed there’s no Brian left to say goodbye to, just a shell of the big brother Nick used to know. Instead I imagine his memories of Brian growing truncated and gray, stretching out over a span of years, slowly dissolving into broken moments of sentiment.

I toss the cellphone aside and close my eyes, as if doing so will finally bring the experience — his and mine — to an end. I want to cry, but the sobs stay locked in my ribcage. From the sidewalk I can hear schoolgirls twittering about cute boys. “Seguro, el es TAN especial” — oh sure, he’s so special — a voice chirps. The girl is being sarcastic, but she also means it.