We left Izamal on Saturday afternoon. Teresa—the maid who’d sheltered us in her employer’s hacienda that morning—had been given the rest of that day and Sunday off so she could visit with her family in a tiny village several kilometers south of Izamal. The town was having a fiesta that evening and hordes of people would be converging upon it. Even if the soldiers who’d pursued us in the jeep the night before had gotten a good look at us—and I doubted it, since what they mostly saw were our backs—they’d be hard pressed to spot us in the milling crowds at the bus depot. And they’d be looking for two people, not three.