Fede was good to his word. Twenty-one minutes later he approached us in the marketplace, then motioned us to follow him into a nearby herbalist’s shop. Inside the tiny store, octagonal plastiglass jars held everything from dried mescal worms to peyote buttons, from wormseed to loco-weed sleeping teas. Nodding to the dwarf who stood behind a thigh-high counter, Fede led us through a curtain and into a back room that smelled of musty herbs and sweet ointments. Even through my breather, the aromas were a poignant reminder of Mama G—her kitchen had smelled a lot like this. Had it already been ten days since I’d last seen her alive?