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man who seldom criticized. He had lived with his faith as a silent beacon, waiting for Simon to ask the unspoken questions.
    The woman broke into his thoughts with, “Your device does not work, señor.”
    “ Yet. My device does not work yet .”
    “And your associate, Dr. Vasquez, is dead.”
    Simon felt the noose tightening around his professional neck. Cutting off his air and any hope of recovering his career. “We are this close to a major breakthrough. That is why the research funding is so critical.”
    “We are a poor city. Even if your device worked, we could not pay you what you claim was promised.”
    Simon caught something in her gaze. For an instant, she separated herself from the two men who enjoyed watching him squirm. Her dark gaze opened in a remarkable manner, as though she was struggling not to weep. Simon had a fleeting vision of a very different woman. One trapped in sorrow and something more. Before he could fathom what message she was trying to send him, the instant was gone. The blank-faced councilwoman said, “Our offer stands. One thousand dollars for your machine and these drawings.”
    He rose to his feet and began cramming his documents and the apparatus back in the duffel. “Your offer isn’t enough to get me home.”
    The two men smiled, as though this had been their intention all along. Dr. Clara continued to lean forward, so as to mask her expression from her associates, and shared with him another secret look. Only this time it was full of warning.
    He zipped his duffel shut. “What aren’t you telling me?”
    She shook her head, clearly disappointed with his question. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Mexico, señor.”
    Simon walked down the corridor and passed the guards and stepped through the main doors. It felt as though the building expelled him. The late afternoon sun blasted directly into his eyes. Behind him he heard loud voices and laughter. The duffel bag weighed a thousand pounds. The apparatus anchored him to a billion broken dreams. The heat was a burden that threatened to drive him onto his knees. To his left, the church bells began ringing, hammering at him with musical nails.
    Simon was midway across the square when he halted. He set the apparatus on the ground by his feet. He stared at the battered Mustang, willing himself to get back behind the wheel and drive. Head north, cross the border, get back to Boston.
    But for what? Get another bartending job? Make another futile attempt to be reinstated at MIT? Try to convince the school he had finally turned his life around?
    The bells finally stopped ringing. A doorway in a yellow stucco wall beside the church opened, and young children spilled out. They all wore uniforms of white and pale blue. They chattered gaily as they crossed the square toward a waiting bus. So many shining faces, so much young hope.
    Simon picked up his duffel and walked to his car. He dumped the apparatus in the rear seat, climbed in, started the car, put it into gear, and pulled away. Behind him, the children chased a pair of doves and shrieked their carefree laughter.
    He traveled the same road he had driven south, filled with bitter regret. He had no idea where Vasquez was buried and would not have gone to the grave site if he did. He had not been to a cemetery since the day after his ninth birthday, when he had been dragged by his new foster family to his parents’ funeral. The apologies he had carried south, the four days of words he had spoken to the empty car, were lost to the blistering heat.
    As the city faded into poverty, Simon’s rage finally erupted. He shouted at the westering sun and pressed the pedal to the floor. The Mustang’s engine bellowed a manic note, as though giving voice to all his bitter tumult. Simon blasted out of town and flew into the desert. The industrial zone and border station were masked by the dusty sunset. And beyond that lay two thousand miles of road and the cold, hard reality of nothing to lose.
    He was