Borders of the Heart by Chris Fabry

him in the rearview. Do you know his name?”
    “No. Just that he works for Muerte across the border.”
    “Wonder if he had kids?” He said it absently, not expecting an answer. “Wonder if they had something on him to make him do that kind of thing or if he was just plain mean.”
    “How old are you?” she said. It came out of the blue, like a leaf fluttering toward the ground in the fall.
    “You want to know my shoe size, too? I’m an eleven. And I’m thirty.”
    “Do you want to know how old I am?” she said.
    “My mother taught me never to ask a woman’s age. But my guess is you have to be at least eighteen.”
    She rolled her eyes and frowned. “I’m twenty-five. I get thata lot.” She told him the year she was born, like that would prove it in a court of law, and he studied the high cheekbones and slender nose, the burnished, impeccable skin. Even in the muted light of the room, she glowed like an angel.
    “I believe you,” he said. “I didn’t mean you looked like a kid, just not twenty-five.”
    “Now tell me about your wedding ring,” she said. “Are you married?”
    “I told you I used to be. But I’m not now.”
    “You’re divorced? I want to know. I am curious about you, John David.”
    “Don’t call me that. It’s J. D.”
    “If we are to trust each other, I have a right to know. You said you would answer my questions. Why do you wear a ring if you are not married?”
    “It’s not a crime to wear a ring when you’re not married. You wear a ring and you’re not married, right?”
    “I wear it on my little finger, and it’s not a wedding band.” She thought a moment and dipped her head, her dark hair veiling her face. “Maybe you think she will come back to you. You wear the ring in the hope of what might be in the future.”
    “Maybe I wear it so people won’t ask me questions. Ever think of that?” He said it with an edge he didn’t expect. “I’ve just never taken it off, that’s all.”
    She lifted both hands in surrender and walked toward the bathroom. “No more questions then.”
    But he wasn’t through. “Since we’re on a roll here with all the trust that’s oozing from you, why don’t you tell me about that bracelet you were wearing? The one around your wrist when I found you.” It seemed like a year since the morning.
    “Bracelet?”
    “The handcuff. What was the other end hooked to?”
    She turned and cocked her head slightly. “It was something I wore that I didn’t want to take off.”
    He heard something outside and rose to check it. The wind had kicked up, blowing dust and mesquite beans and trash around the parking lot. The thin door moved. The lock was flimsy and the weather stripping had worn from the edge so that sunlight shone through and hot air blew inside.
    “It was a satchel, a leather case,” she said with remorse as if she regretted their argument. As if she wanted to thank him but couldn’t. “The other handcuff was hooked to the handle. It was long and heavy.”
    “What was in it? What were you bringing across the border?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “That makes no sense. How could you not know? Who gave it to you? How’d you get through customs? You have to know what was in there.”
    “I have an idea, but I can’t say for sure. It was locked and I didn’t have the combination. But I knew it was important. He wouldn’t have sent me with it if it wasn’t.”
    “Okay, and who is he ?”
    She looked at him, then at the floor. “Muerte. He was part of it. He suggested it, in a way.”
    “So you know him personally. What is he, some guy you dated? You worked for?”
    She frowned. “He is not my boyfriend.”
    “Is he the one who handcuffed you?”
    “No, I did that myself.”
    The story wasn’t making sense. “So you came through the border handcuffed to a satchel and they let you waltz through?”
    “I did not put the handcuffs on until after we made it across the border.”
    “We?”
    “Yes, there was a