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And then one afternoon, I dropped in to see José at Pawn Minnesota, as I had done almost every day since he agreed to come on the trip. Dressed in his freshly pressed uniform, a white shirt with narrow black tie, he bought and sold just about everything: hand tools, DVDs, video games, guitars, televisions, stereos, computers, MP3 players. My repeated visits provided opportunities to remind him about our impending departure, and to implore him to get a pair of glasses for the trip.

Nearly blind, José never noticed me until I was next in line at his counter.

“Good afternoon, sir,” José said professionally.

“Did you get the stuff yet?” I whispered confidentially. I had given him a list of items to acquire before the day planned for our departure.

Each time I asked he seemed surprised, and each time his reply was the same: “No, dawg, not yet. But I will.” It was unnerving to be putting so much energy into researching the route and acquiring gear, unsure if José was serious about going.

When I unrolled the maps for him later that night at my apartment, José seemed uninterested. He looked away and changed the subject. His older brother had been released from prison recently after having raped an adolescent cousin, and he and José had met two young women, wealthy members of one of Minnesota’s casino-rich Dakota tribes. They had moved in with these women, using them for their Escalades, condos, and booze. It was a cushy setup, and I feared José might never leave.