“Sit down,” she said, pointing with her chin.

Donny did, there on the top step. There were no other chairs.

“You’ve gotten a lot better,” said Donny, meaning her guitar playing.

“I have a more attentive audience now,” she said. “And more life lived to put into it.”

Donny nodded. And for once, he shut up and listened.

It was like the blues, but a different blues, one that knew math, and the sound that comes from minarets, and the sounds of the horses of European wars. He could also hear the sound of more recent wars, in the way she played it.

“That’s really beautiful,” he said when she was done.

“Thanks,” she said.

“I’m gonna go get us some dinner,” said Sig. When he stood, Donny noticed the knife for the first time, hanging from his belt. Maybe because he put his hand on it when he said that, as if the knife was what he was going to use to get it.

“Is this still a zoo?” said Donny.

Joyce looked at him. In the outdoor light, he noticed she had more gray than him. She had earned it.

“We don’t cage any animals here anymore, if that’s what you mean,” she said.

“What do you do, Patricia?”

“I’m a writer,” she said.

Whenever Donny heard someone say that, it sounded more like a pose than a job.

“Patricia is a philosopher,” said Joyce. “And a landscaper, and a birder, and an outstanding masseuse.”

“You’ll have to help me ID some of these crazy birds I keep hearing,” said Donny. “Where did you two meet?”

“Mexico City,” said Patricia. “Right after the coup.”

“Of course,” said Donny. He remembered the resentment he felt the last time he visited there and saw exiles talking politics at sidewalk cafés under the Aztec sun while others endured the dark years of dictatorship back here. “When did you come back?”

He already knew when Joyce had come back.

“Fuck off, Donny,” said Joyce.

“Sorry,” said Donny, even though he really wasn’t.

“I came back after the Compact was signed, and it was safe,” said Patricia. “There were no easy paths. But here we are now, finally on the path we were meant to find.”

“Right on,” said Joyce. Which was a weird phrase to hear her use.

“There are those birds,” said Donny, pointing at his ear.

“They know Sig is coming,” said Joyce. “They can smell him.”

“So can I,” said Donny.

“How was the archive?” said Joyce. As she set her guitar down, he noticed the new tattoo on her forearm. Rover-style, like Xelina used to wear, trading cards of extinct North American animals. This one a saber-toothed cat to match the more primitively inked giant armadillo she had gotten in prison.

“It was interesting,” he said. “I’m impressed with what you all have pulled together there. I didn’t even know records like that existed.”