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A black housewife allows her hidden self to emerge.

Gathering control of his breathing, Aaron looked into the mirror at the decreasing scene and whispered dryly, "He's not moving."

The woman jerked her head back only to see the animal, unharmed and undisturbed, standing still on the centers strip. Blood returned to her face as her lips gasped in relief, "He's fine. You didn't hit him."

Decelerating without the man's foot forcing it forward, the vehicle coasted along the pavement. The engine cracked and hissed from its short engagement; wisps of steam escaping along the hood's edges as Aaron warned, "I know that, but what about the crazy bus behind us?"

The passengers both strained backwards, as the car rolled to a stop. Both intently watching as the steer dozed in the heat. Aaron slammed the lever into reverse and began the backward trip; his neck resisted the torture as a black exhaust cloud, muddled by the heat's haze, rose above the road's horizon. The buses oily gears shifted begrudgingly and quietly groaned from the strain-a distant warning for all to hear.

The animal's ear twitched, perhaps to dismiss a blue bottle fly but more likely, at hearing the low growl pulsating across the shrub. Chasing the gnats and disturbing the head's nap, a tail slapped the bovine's ribs. A fragrant odor of mesquite beans, tastier than dried weeds, drew his now awaken attention and the beast wandered from the asphalt into the scant brush.

Aaron exhaled for the first time, clearing his lungs of the stale air, and felt the dryness suck at his lips with the returning breath. Accepting the heat, he lowered his window and continued toward the coast, setting a pace to avoid further alarms. Missy laid her head against the windowsill. With a tiredness draping about her world, her eyelashes plummeted until she was asleep.

Missy had napped for the last fifty miles, bored with the desert, not yet smelling the crisp salt of the Mexican gulf as the car entered the town's promenade. Oblivious of the hot afternoon, a dog sprawled strangely on the soft asphalt as the Federale motioned their car to the curb. The scraping brakes startled the woman, disturbing the beads of sweat on her shallow cheeks, as the car rolled to a halt.

Even before her eyes opened to the harsh light, she jerked up and asked, "What is it? Why are we stopped?" wiping the thin trace of spittle from the corner of her mouth.

"We're almost there kid. You can smell the ocean." Aaron answered. Using a handkerchief to remove the sweat from her face, he lingered over her eyes with the cloth and tried to hide the scene for as long as possible.

Lifting the wet strands of hair and allowing the weak air from the window to blow along her skin, she took the cloth and wiped the back of her neck. Excited at seeing the palms for the first time, the woman took in the checked trunks but skipped across the still form of the animal in the road.

Watching the officer's damp uniform and waiting for the signal to proceed Aaron stared ahead. The sign he sought was an urgent motion of a white gloved hand releasing the guilty and innocent alike. His fingers tightened on the wheel; silent curses reverberating through his head, when he heard the woman scream," Oh God, it's a dog. Oh God, is he hurt?"

"Well it's about a hundred and twenty degrees out here, and he's been lying there for the last ten minutes. I don't think he's napping." He snapped, startled by the woman's alarm and dreading the argument sure to follow.

"Why are you such a son-of-a-bitch?" she blurted, tears pooling in her eyes as her gaze settled on the form. "I feel so sorry for him," she sobbed.

Dragging her gaze away from the prone form, Aaron nodded toward the sidewalk, "Which do you feel more sorry for, the dog or that bastard over there who let him run into the street?"

The ex-owner of the dog, an American expatriate by his clothes, paced the sidewalk.

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