"So, do you know your way around here? Is there a cargo van sitting around that we can use, or public transportation? Reynaldo made it seem as though I wouldn't be finding a taxi anytime soon."
"The nearest town is Mexico City, and it's about fifteen miles west of here."
"Fine. We'd better start parading off, then. Which way is west?"
"Barf, we're not going to walk to Mexico City."
"Fine. I didn't invite you anyway."
"Hold on. They're bound to pick us up soon. We have no food, nothing to drink, no money, as if we had a way to spend it. We may as well go back to Band-aid Lodge."
"I didn't find Reynaldo the innkeeper back there very accommodating. Is he a friend of yours, too?"
"I've been trying to tell you, I'm not working with them. They forced me to come here, and yes, they told me to hook up with you. I just don't know what else to do," she realized miserably.
"Praise the Lord. So, what is this place? McCarthy's private resort?"
They had been careening down the trail all this time, and found themselves in a gully.
"Let's go down to that bit of litter and wait," he instructed. "Maybe we can get the jump on them, if the McCarthy toilet vultures don't see us first. I don't suppose you have a carbine or anything useful like that on you?"
"What do you think?