8. Casino Atlantic, Quito, 1978

When she recognized the danger, the parking lot suddenly became beautiful and strange, an arena for great events. One of the men threw down a cigarette as she and John approached. John said: “Don’t look now.”

They’d tied their shirts around their faces, but she recognized the fat one. They spoke in Spanish, barking as if rushed. She should have translated for John.

And she had already seen in her mind, how he would empty his pockets for them and the men would search him roughly for concealed cash. How they would search her and make obscene jokes. She would remain stiff until it was over. She and John would have to walk to their hotel, and make excuses at reception for the lost key. “Ladrones, ladrones,” she would explain, to general tuts and sympathy.

John swung at the gun. The man fired. It was bright and then much darker. Blinded, she lunged for John, as the man fired three more times. Then it was hitting a loud wall. It spun her onto her back.

She still didn’t believe it had happened. It was all right, she could see John’s leg kicking, his shoe’s gleam on and off. She was thinking of what might have actually happened, one hand feeling the dry asphalt curiously, as the pain hit and she blacked out.