The bus was crowded—the three of us had to squeeze into a seat designed for two. Rafael sat between Teresa and I, one muscular arm draped across the back of the seat behind her, smiling and bragging for the entire forty-kilometer journey about how he’d be a professional combat biker one day—and boring Teresa silly, I’m sure. I spent my time trying to get comfortable with my hoop hanging half off the seat. I had to take a deep, steadying breath each time we stopped at an Aztlan military checkpoint—especially since I still had the Azzie officer’s Savalette Guardian inside my jacket. But the soldiers who squeezed through the press of people on board the bus to scan passengers’ ID datacards didn’t even pause to listen to my hastily concocted story about us coming to Izamal to visit our "niece" Teresa. They appeared to be looking for someone else.