Marcella slipped out a side entrance of the Mohawk Inn and, wanting to imagine herself as a burglar for those few moments, tiptoed for Rodrigo’s car. She touched the unlock icon on the purloined key fob, guided her dingy backpack onto the driver’s seat. As if it might provide a hint as how to proceed, she glanced in the direction of the illuminated sign at the motel entrance, where a russet-colored Mohawk Indian had his bow drawn, arrow aimed. In the light provided by the sign, a Hospitality Supplies delivery van. Marcella would be the first to admit that as thieves went, she was not a well-focused one. She closed the driver’s side door in a measured way and found herself moving in the direction of the van. The back doors were open, and the delivery guy held boxes over to a Mohawk employee in a brown, polo-style shirt, a young white kid with a blonde afro. The kid stacked them onto a two-wheeler. “Are those the little bottles of hand lotion and shampoos?” she said.

Neither responded.

Then, through the glass entrance doors of the lobby, Marcella spotted Rodrigo in his jeans and bare feet. It would be ridiculous for her to try and make a run for it. He halted, waited for the doors to slide open and while still a few strides away, she underhanded the fob, which he caught at belly level. She produced his wallet from her back pocket, tossed it over. “Nothing missing,” she said, “Go ahead and check.” He thumbed through plastic cards. Two were all scarlet with the number 308, and that had her curiosity. He widened the currency slip though it only held a US $20. “Give me a ride to the train station?” Marcella said. Then, then the doors were sliding closed behind him.

The motel worker and the delivery guy were watching

.