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concrete benches. Old cars creaked and complained as they drove over topes, the speed bumps lining the roads. In a nearby shop-front window, two women made dough and fed it into a tortilla machine.
    The city office building looked ready for demolition. Several windows were cracked. Blinds hung at haphazard angles, giving the facade a sleepy expression. A bored policeman slumped in the shaded entrance. Simon entered just as the church bells tolled the hour.
    The guard ran his duffel back through the metal detector three times, while another officer pored over the letter from the city council. Finally they gestured him inside and pointed him down a long corridor.
    The door to the council meeting hall was closed. Simon heard voices inside. He debated knocking, but Vasquez had still not arrived. Simon visited the restroom and changed into a clean shirt. He stuffed his dirty one down under the apparatus. He shaved and combed his hair. His eyes looked like they had become imprinted with GPS road maps, so he dug out his eyedrops. Then he took a moment and inspected his reflection.
    Simon was tall enough that he had to stoop to fit his face in the mirror. His hair was brownish-blond and worn rakishly long, which went with his strong features and green eyes and pirate’s grin. Only he wasn’t smiling now. There was nothing he could do to repay Vasquez for what happened, except help him get the city’s funding so they could complete the project. Then Simon would flee this poverty-stricken town and try to rebuild his own shattered life.
    He returned to the hall, settled onto a hard wooden bench, and pulled out his phone. For once, the phone registered a two-bar signal.
    Simon dialed Vasquez and listened to the phone ring. The linoleum floor by his feet was pitted with age. The hallway smelled slightly of cheap disinfectant and a woman’s perfume. Sunlight spilled through tall windows at the end of the corridor, forming a backdrop of brilliance and impenetrable shadows.
    When the professor’s voice mail answered, he said, “It’s Simon again. I’m here in the council building. Growing more desperate by the moment.” The door beside him opened, and Simon turned away from the voices that spilled out. “Professor Vasquez, I really hope you’re on your way, because—”
    “Excuse me, señor. You are Simon Orwell, the professor’s great friend?”
    Simon shut his phone and rose to his feet. “Is he here?”
    The two men facing him could not have been more different. One was tall, not as tall as Simon, but he towered over most Mexicans. And handsome. And extremely well groomed. The other was the product of a hard life, stubby and tough as nails. The only thing they shared was a somber expression.
    Even before the elegant man said the words, Simon knew.
    “I am very sorry to have to tell you, Señor Simon. But Professor Vasquez is dead.”
    “No, that’s . . . What?”
    “Allow me to introduce myself. Enrique Morales, I am the mayor of Ojinaga. And this is Pedro Marin, the assistant town manager and my trusted ally.”
    “Vasquez is dead?”
    “A heart attack. Very sudden.”
    “He thought the world of you, Señor Simon.” Pedro spoke remarkably clear English.
    The mayor was graceful even when expressing condolences. “ Nos lamentanos mucho. We lament with you, Señor Simon, in this dark hour.”
    For some reason, Simon found it easier to focus upon the smaller man. “You knew the professor?”
    “He was a dear friend. My sister and I and Dr. Harold, perhaps you have heard of him? The professor was very close to us all.”
    “You’re sure about Vasquez?”
    “Such a tragedy.” The mayor was around his midthirties and had a politician’s desire to remain the center of attention. “You came all the way from Boston, is that not so? We are glad you made it safely. And we regret this news is here to greet you.”
    “I . . . we’re scheduled to meet the city council.”
    A look flashed between the two men. “I