Jose leads the solemn procession of three out of the saloon, down a dusty street, and into the inferno of the desert. Though the sun dips low, the heat remains, even seems to grow. They plod stoicly forward, Tom a bewildered and semi-willing participant.

Try as he might, nature will not be refused, forcing Tom to ask of Jose, “Um, senor? Senor? Gus-gus-gusto el, um…donde esta el bano?”

Jose stops without looking back, resulting in the trio halting in the a midst of vast, dry waste.

“The gringo has to take a piss?” Jose asks over his shoulder.

His daughter relays to Tom, “You need to make urine, senor?”

“I’ve already made it. The problem is I have to get rid of it.”

“Yes, father. He does.”

Jose does nothing to conceal his sigh as he scans the horizon, “Aki, senor.”

“What?”

His daughter clarifies, “Here, senor. You make urine here.”

Tom pushes, “Um, Can I go by that cactus at leas…”

“No!” she snaps, “We must not stray from the path, not by a single step! It is death, death for us all.”