Stacie, Yadira and Tiffany brushed past a man and woman walking into an open-air restaurant. A dark fountain bubbled in the background.
“Excuse me,” said Yadira, “can you tell me which way the river is?”
“Que?”
“The river.”
“El rio esta norte. Cercano la montanas,” he said, grabbing his date’s arm and headed toward the maitre d’. The woman glanced back at them, at the scratches from the mesquite tree on Yadira's face, at their filthy legs, at their disheveled hair and at the strange pails they were carrying. She looking at them like they were possessed.
“You’re talking about the wrong river,” Yadira replied weakly.