"Good. Neither do I. What's your favorite song?"
"No Pasarán."
"I know it," the kid said. "It is a good song." His fingers flew over the strings, found the right chords. Hall joined him in the words of the Spanish Republic's song of resistance.
Night, deep-blue night, the yellow mazdas of the farmers' village way behind them now, and the gua-gua rolling down the highway between plowed fields and fields of sugar and nothing in sight but the broad fields.
"Hey, driver!" That was me. I can talk now. I can stand, too. If I grip the tops of the seats I can walk to the front without taking a pratt fall. "Driver, gua-guero ..."
"Jump, it's not high, señor ..."
Feet on the ground once more. Black blue soft chill night air. There goes the gua-gua. Red tail light bouncing around the bend in the road. No ship. No sun. No garlic broiling in olive oil. Nothing. Get off the road. Get up. Off the road. Get to the fence. Get up, get up, here comes the blackout again, here it comes, watch it, men, this is it.
He remembered the kid with the guitar, the rich voice of the driver. Jump, it's not high. It was still night. He was lying in a field, about fifteen yards from the highway. The taste of black earth at his lips had awakened him.
He turned his mouth away from the plowed earth. There was no sense in trying to get up. He knew that much. All in. He was all in. Every bone, every muscle ached. He closed his eyes, sank into a deep dreamless sleep.
Thirst wakened him. It was a thirst that started in his throat, spread to his dry cottony mouth, sank deep into his drying insides. They were drying out, drying out fast. He had to have water, or they would dry up completely, and then he would be dead.