I ask if he is OK and he shakes his head. I drop to one knee and listen to his story. As it turns out, he is traveling to Cali for the funeral of a friend. He was killed for his automobile by leftists rebels or right-wing militias or members of a drug cartel. Maybe it was an independent car-jacker.
Nobody knows for sure.
The funeral is tomorrow. The murder, he says, will probably go unsolved. I squeeze his shoulder and look directly into his eyes. He really appreciates the fact that I am taking the time to listen. He does not say this, but I can tell by the sad smile that struggles beneath his moistening cheeks.