He looked as though he was about to faint. I took his arm and steered him toward a low wall and urged him to sit. I brushed away the paper streamers and foam cups that had been left there after last night's fiesta, then sat down beside him. I could see that something was gnawing at Gus, that he was being tortured by conflicting emotions. My police training screamed at me to pepper him with questions, to grill him while he was most vulnerable. But this was a man who had aided us, helping us to hide from the Azzie military and then candidly telling us the story of Mama G’s past. I decided to let him tell his story in his own time.