The Fortune Years Of Nathan Cook

nathan demands details from rocio once again. She lowers her eyelids as she speaks. The way her eyes move furiously beneath the skin, as if she's exhausted by his questioning, puts him in a volatile mood. She doesn't seem to understand all he's risking by talking to her.

"Come on, Rocio, I don't have all day," he says.

"I'm trying to remember."

"Please try harder and try now."

She has recounted her story before today. The first time was inside the maquiladora he manages. The second time was at a music festival. Their employer sponsors the festival each year, and Rocio, like all auto workers, had been given complimentary tickets to attend and discounted tickets for tequila and beer.

By their third meeting, Nathan believed Rocio's story. What he would do with it, he did not know.

"What makes you think I want to help you?" he'd asked.

"I've heard things about you," she said. "Good things. Even you don't treat workers this bad."

He'd scheduled that third meeting away from the city and far from anyone whom they might know. Together they piloted a panga across the Rio Grande to the desert. They spent an hour walking along a remote path scattered with cactus needles and dried succulent leaves. He recorded her statements as they walked. Later, he'd regret their open-air location. The sound of wind buried her voice at crucial points.

Rocio's hair had been in a messy braid that day, and she wore a blue scarf that covered the top of her head. She described her manager's sexual advances, how he spoke into her ear in a voice that made it seem like they were fucking.

The fourth time they spoke was in a car parked near the grasslands. No one was around for several miles.

Today is their fifth conversation. Unlike their previous talks, this one is by happenstance—they've run into each other at the yearly music fest.

"Where have you been?" Rocio asks. "Do you even plan to do anything?"

Nathan wishes he could leave. He wants to go home, get drunk, watch porn. Instead he is here listening to Rocio, and she has the nerve to act inconvenienced when he asks for the details again. She should thank him for talking to her in public, for believing in her. And he does. Her story has been the same each time she's recounted it, which tells him that it has to be true. Liars resort to the actual, true-to-life details when asked to recount a story several times. He knows this from watching police procedurals. Since moving to Mexico, he's had limited access to cable and to American-produced television shows. Out of everything he's sacrificed for this job, he misses his police procedurals the most. And Leigh.

"Who knows that you've talked to me about this?" he asks.

"My husband and that's it."

"What have you told Javier?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose between her eyes. The music of the headlining band disturbs the air, the speakers crackle with electric feedback. All of the noise appears to have given her a headache.

"I've told him what I told you—"

"—and what I say to you? Do you tell him that? Do you repeat what I've said to you?"

"Yes. Is that why you haven't called?" Rocio stares at him. "He is my husband. I tell him everything, but I tell him he cannot repeat."

"Fuck!" he says and spits into the dirt.

The guitarist for the boy band takes center stage. The festivalgoers—the corporate office has estimated there are three thousand of them—scream their approval, at least the ones sober enough to muster attention to watch the show. Many more people are kicking up dust as they dance and fall down drunk. Red dust swirls at Nathan's calves, dirtying his khaki pants.

A group of workers spot him and stumble in his direction. Their...