We were twin Mexican princesses who had never been to our country before. We had been do-gooders, stationed with hundreds. It was our birthday. We had just rearranged tens of cakes—to make room for what? I bumped into some of their pastel-frostinged flowers, and had to wipe away the evidence from my burgundy T-shirt and olive commando pants.

A microcosm of the problems I had with the Organization was that no names would be called out at the monthly birthday rally. But at least there was cake.

A wide-eyed man with Dr. Who hair rushed in and said that the name of Famous Person (also do-gooder) was to be announced, as it was his birthday, too. We were to convey this information to the Speaker. Instead, we left.

The first town we came to heralded our arrival in their newspaper, along with a map of the town and how they were going to ambush us by sending us to a traffic roundabout when all the other roads led away.

“Make a left on Devon,” said a Haitian-looking man; his accent was unplaceable, but vaguely Hispanic. That was when we found the paper with the map and the arrows.

Our hair was dark and unwieldy. Grit blew into our round brown eyes, and our arms were tired from waving. We had started out with a procession, but perhaps they were only trying to get rid of us: By the time we got to that first town, they had gone.

I think I lost my sister then. Maybe she went back—maybe she had only been a mirage, a mirror conjured from the dusty heat. In any case, I undid the two thin ties that held my dark blue carnival-portrait dress, trimmed with cream lace, before I ran.
Some sheriffs were on my side, others were not. The man who had first tried to lead us astray was captured some towns over and put in handcuffs, which he sorely decried. He and I were, for a time, kept in different parts of the same building. Whenever he saw me, he would spit and glare.

One rainy night, the sheriff of that town said I was free to go. I was given a 1974 metallic-rust-brown Datsun 280ZX and told to be on my way. It was raining, and the black asphalt of the parking lot and the nearby freeway interchange shone silver under the streetlamps.

The seat cushion in the car was worn down; I had trouble finding a comfortable height and distance from the wheel. The engine was silent, so I couldn’t tell if it was running. I ground the starter and kept having problems with the gears. Nothing seemed to work until, pointed in the right direction, I just pressed the gas pedal and began to move forward, edging onto the freeway and into the night beyond. That time, too, there was no crowd to see me off.

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