Mexico had been one disaster after another.

Onions drove north from Tecate which left Coal, in the pickup's right seat, with his hands free. He lifted them dramatically, middle fingers jutting up already, ready to flip.

Onions checked his mirrors. Behind them, uniformed officials manned three narrow lanes of the border crossing. He said to his older brother, "Better look where you're aiming those."

Coal shrugged, but put his hands down, squirmed around, and glared out the rear window. Submitting to discretion, he flopped to face America again.

Eyes on the busy road ahead, Onions reset his hands on the steering wheel as his right foot pressed them along Highway 188. In through the open windows blew dry air tainted by desert dust, a clogged sewer, and the bite of broken mesquite. Ahead, those trees stubbled low hills. Above them, haze gave a milky undertone to a clear blue sky.

Coal muttered, "Never, ever bring this up again." He glowered, looking like Stallone at his beefcake best.

Onions flared. "What? Paying up Mom's mortgage?"

"'Course not."

"Mexico?"

C straightened some in his seat. "And give up Acapulco?" He peered out his side, but not before O saw his smirk. Stallone gave way to Dylan McDermott.

Since they'd never been anywhere near Acapulco, O lightened up some. "Surfing contests?"

"Well, the contest part anyway. So: never, ever bring up surfing contests ..."

"In Baja ..."

"In May."

"Done," Onions said. "Speaking of money we (didn't) get ..."

"How's the traveling fund?"

O recalled the contents of his money belt. "One more tank of gas, and a couple of burritos for us."

C reached for their cache of road maps and gazetteers. He then hauled his cell-phone out of its belt holster. His hum of delight meant it had found its designated network, and he could confirm what the possibly out-of-date paperbacks told him.

O checked the sun off his left shoulder: mid-point to the horizon. "We're turning east up ahead. Find a tavern this side of Yuma."