My miscarriage came in the women’s restroom of a Valero gas station in Dilley, Texas, home to fracking, private prisons, and about 4000 people. The cramps had been mild that morning, so mild that I had strolled into a coffee shop in San Antonio, purchased a cheese and fruit box, and thanked the barista at the checkout counter sounding cheery and bright. During the car ride, the cramps grew stronger and bigger, trying to urge attention. I squeezed some honey peanut butter onto an apple slice, shifted in my seat, and chewed silently. I was riding with an attorney whom I had just met 24 hours prior. I was joining her on tours of immigration detention centers in Texas. We were driving from San Antonio to the US-Mexico border at Laredo, a long, straight drive past stretches of oil rigs and truck stops. I had not yet begun the rituals of sending pregnancy announcements or shopping for maternity clothes.