The SUV veered off I-87 and pulled into a Shell station. The agent driving, wearing sunglasses even though it was drizzling, got out and started filling the tank.

Keller twisted around. “I’m gonna get some coffee,” she said, opening her door. “Want anything?”

“A Mountain Dew would be great,” Matt said. “I need to wake up.”

Keller gave a disapproving frown and headed to the station’s small convenience store.

Matt’s thoughts returned to Danny. He imagined his brother in his cell, fighting the tears. What a terrible place, where any sign of emotion was taken as weakness, easy prey. He thought of his brother’s prison muscles and cold eyes.

Keller returned with a coffee and small plastic bag from the store. Instead of returning to the front seat, she got into the back next to Matt. From the bag she retrieved a bottle of water and an apple and handed them to him.

“They were out of Mountain Dew,” she said, clearly lying. “Anyway, at the academy they taught us that water will wake you up more than caffeine.”

“Is that so?” Matt said, eyeing the paper cup of coffee in Keller’s hand.

She gave him a knowing smile and took a sip. The driver started the engine, but Keller stayed in the back. Matt realized that she wanted to talk about something.

“Look,” she said as the SUV merged back onto the interstate, “I know this isn’t a great time, but we need your help with something.”

Matt straightened himself. Took a big drink of the water. “Sure.”

“The Mexican authorities are being difficult about”—Keller took in a breath—“about releasing your family to come home. They say they need an immediate family member to sign some papers before the bodies can be released.”

“Fine. I’ll sign whatever they send over.”

“That’s just it. They won’t just send the papers. They need someone there in person.”

“Wait, what?”

“We’re working our diplomatic channels, but the locals are being a pain. They haven’t been particularly forthcoming with information, and they’re saying we need a family member there in person.”

“Why would they do that?” Matt asked.

“It could be they’re worried about tourism. What happened isn’t the best PR in the world. Or it could be some bureaucrat on a power trip. Or”—she looked Matt in the eyes—“or they could be hiding something.”

Matt pondered this. “If you think it’s necessary,” he said, “then, sure, yeah. When do you need me to go?”

“We’ve booked you a flight out tomorrow morning.”

Matt let out a breath. Could this fucking week get any better? He gave a noncommittal nod, then continued gazing out the window. He wasn’t particularly travel ready. He had less than one hundred dollars in his bank account. And he’d stubbornly refused any money from his parents after the fight with his father.

They sat in silence for a long time as the SUV made its way to the Henry Hudson Parkway and into Manhattan.

The rain had subsided and there was a sudden part in the clouds, the sun beaming through the gloom. The gold tinge on the buildings brought Matt back to one of their family traditions. Every July, his father’s accounting firm held its annual meeting in New York and they’d all come along. The event overlapped with “Manhattanhenge,” one of two days a year when the setting sun aligned perfectly with the New York City street grid. When the fiery ball of the sun was framed in by skyscrapers as it dipped below the horizon. Matt thought back to the last Manhattanhenge before Year Zero—the family sitting at a café on Fourteenth Street, Dad and Mom holding hands, tipsy on wine and being in the city. Danny checking out the girls strutting by in movie-starlet sunglasses and short skirts. Maggie’s nose in a guidebook, spouting out facts about the rare solar event.

Matt flashed to the same café last year: everyone in their assigned seats, Dad next to Maggie, who was across from Mom. Next to Mom, Tommy, who’d taken Danny’s old seat. And Matt on the outside, trying to squeeze in at the small table. Everyone going through the motions, pretending the ritual still had meaning. The new but not improved Pines. And now he had an ache on his insides that both versions of his family were dead. After all of the bitterness, the anger, the longing for the original Pines, he’d give anything to have his bizarro post–Year Zero family back. Give anything to tell his father he was sorry for the things he’d said. Tell his mom what she meant to him. Tell Maggie what a light she was in his life. Tell Tommy that he was their savior. But that life, whatever his grievances, was over. The devastation, the fragility of what they’d had, was almost more than he could take.

“Where would you like us to drop you?” Keller asked. “The dorm?”

“Do you think they’re gone yet?”

“Who? The reporters?”

“Yeah.”

Keller frowned. “I doubt it. Do you have a friend we can—”

“You can take me to East Seventh, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The driver looked at Keller in the rearview, and she gave him a nod. The SUV jerked around other cars until traffic was at a standstill. The driver flipped on the strobe mounted to the dash, and the vehicles ahead splayed, creating a narrow path.

Matt watched out the window again as the end-of-the-day crowd headed on foot to happy hours, commuter trains, and cramped apartments.

Finally the SUV drew to the curb on Seventh.

“Here?” Keller said, glancing at the run-down barbershop and dry cleaner next door.

“My friend lives upstairs.” Matt looked up at the four-story building in need of a paint job.

Keller nodded. “I just got a text that we have your phone,” she said. “I can bring it to you before your flight tomorrow, if that works?”

“Okay.”

“We’ll also have an agent fly to Mexico with you.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Matt said.

“It will just help make sure you’re—”

“I’d prefer to go alone.”

Keller frowned. “All right. But at least let us have our consular officer pick you up at the airport. He’ll take you to Tulum.”

When Matt didn’t object, Keller retrieved a sheet of paper from her handbag, and handed it to him. “This has your flight information.”

Matt remained silent.

“Does your friend have a number so we can reach you?”

“I don’t know it. It’s in my phone.” The art of remembering a ten-digit number extinguished by Apple.

“Okay. Here are my numbers.” She handed him a business card.

Matt glanced at the card. SARAH KELLER, FINANCIAL CRIMES SECTION. He wondered for a moment how a financial crimes agent had gotten stuck babysitting him. He’d assumed that the FBI was involved either because of Danny and the documentary or because of the death of Americans abroad. Whatever.

He opened the back door and stepped onto the sidewalk. The clouds had returned, the sun buried behind them again.

“And, Matt,” Keller said before he shut the door, “I’m really sorry for your loss.”

Matt looked at the federal agent, and he believed her.

CHAPTER 6

Matt stabbed the buzzer on the dilapidated apartment building again. Still no answer. He looked up and down the street. It was lined with dented cars and walk-ups with window-unit air conditioners jutting over the sidewalk. He glanced inside the darkened windows of the barbershop. Just the outline of four chairs facing mirrors. Matt rang the buzzer one more time, and when it went ignored, he walked down an alley to the back of the place. A rickety fire escape clung to the structure. It was rusty and looked like an accident waiting to happen. Matt jumped up, clasped the bottom rung, and tugged. The ladder skated down with a loud clank.

Matt clambered up to the fourth floor. On the narrow metal ledge at the top he peered into the window. And there was Ganesh. Passed out, enough weed paraphernalia on the coffee table to stock a head shop. The window was open a crack, and noise from the blaring television seeped outside. Matt tapped on the glass.

When Ganesh didn’t stir, Matt wedged his fingers under the window frame and lifted. The window was warped from rot and age, and it jammed halfway up. He crawled through the hole.

“Ganesh,” Matt said, but his friend didn’t move. He was out cold, mouth wide open, still wearing his plastic-framed glasses, a bag of potato chips on his lap.

“Ganesh,” he said again, louder, over the din of Fox News blasting from the television mounted on the wall.

Ganesh shot up, startled. He looked around, then seemed to relax when he registered that it was Matt.

“Dude, you scared the shit out of me,” Ganesh said. He spoke with a slight Indian accent, barely detectable, and sounded more British than Indian.

“Sorry, you weren’t answering the door, so I—” Matt pointed his chin at the window. They’d made the same climb once before when Ganesh had forgotten his keys. Matt was sober this time, at least.

“No worries.” Ganesh’s curly hair was a mess. He dusted potato chip crumbs from his shirt, then gave Matt a long sad look. “I heard … Did you get my texts? I don’t know what to say.”