He knew what he wanted. He missed breakfast in Santa Fé, in the Eagle Cafe. He wanted to go in and sit on a stool before the counter, the greasy crumb-strewed coffee-splashed table that stretched the length of the restaurant. He wanted another breakfast with the _Capital Times_ to read; a stale roll and coffee with milk in it, and people to talk to. People! And afterwards to stroll down De Vargas Avenue to the barber-shop, or to sit in the taxi-stand and have a smoke with Harvey, waiting for trade. He wanted to talk to someone, Harvey or the barber or the Mexican who lived next door and kept a goat in the back yard. And the others—Bob, or Lucy, or even Phyllis Parker. Who was new in town, he wondered? Who was being taken for the Circle Drive, or eating lunch in the Plaza? The car stopped in front of a little frame shack with a green door and a red gas pump. A Mexican came out when Blake honked the horn, and filled the tank sullenly. Blake tried to find out something about the road ahead. How far was El Paso? Would there be a place where they could have lunch? Did the Mexican have an extra carrier for gasoline? The man grunted in reply. He had no gas tank. El Paso wasn’t beyond three hours’ drive. A place for lunch three miles farther on. Road pretty good. He shuffled back into the house and slammed the door. There was a poster on the wall that looked new enough to be contemporary. Curiously, Blake sauntered over to examine it and to read it aloud: “Prize Fight,” he said. “Between José Baca and the Montero Kid. Tonight. Seats twenty-five cents. Reserved fifty. At the Palace Theatre....” “Where is it?” Gin asked eagerly. “I’d like to see one. Or is it over?” “It was last night, I guess. September sixth—what is today? Is it the seventh?” “It doesn’t matter,” Gin said. “Come seven, come eleven.... Isn’t it my turn to drive?” They rearranged themselves and settled down. Teddy was in a daze. There was something he had forgotten; he had certainly forgotten something. Gin had reminded him of it. What was it? The morning passed slowly and the sun grew hotter. Blake was excited, more and more so as they drew near the border. “What do you think the border looks like?” he asked cheerfully. “I expect a sort of chicken-wire fence with flags on each side.” “I think it’ll be a row of milestone things,” Gin said. “We can tell better when we hear them talk. Blake, you wink at me when you hear someone say ‘Carramba!’ and we’ll know that we’ve arrived.” They screamed with laughter. Teddy stared at the road and frowned. Come seven, come eleven. What was it? Something was wrong: he had forgotten something. “I’m off to my love with a boxing glove,” sang Blake. “Whoops!”