It was since the uprising that the Honorable Harold W. Broyles had been dating Donny’s mom, a turn of events that was more surprising to Donny at first than the uprising itself. And then Donny saw them together and realized it was actually a pretty good fit. Both lawyers, around the same age, with a similar social background—his mom, like Broyles, was blue-blood Houston. And with similar politics, though his mom was more loyal to the now-lost cause than Broyles was, the allegiance of a convert to the cause—where Broyles had just adapted his immutable values to the situation at hand.

“Is she here?” said Donny.

“No, Donny,” said Broyles. “Catherine is out. She went to a movie with Ellen.”

Donny didn’t know who Ellen was.

“Okay,” said Donny. “It was a stupid idea anyway.”

“What was a stupid idea?”

Broyles was an old man now, but a fit one, and while his face showed its age his eyes still had that same edge.

“Coming here. I just thought—”

He had thought maybe he could hit his rich mom up for the money he owed Thelen. It was an idea so obvious that he had considered it before he went to New Orleans, only to convince himself that his elaborate scheme would be easier than swallowing his pride and his political disagreement along with it. And now that his scheme had crashed and burned like some ill-designed early flying machine, and he looked for gold BMWs around every corner as he snuck back into Dallas, coming here also seemed like a good way to evade his creditors.

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you,” said Broyles. “She should be back soon. Come on in. I was just reading.”

Broyles, like Joyce, had a proclivity for Bach. But where she preferred guitar, Broyles liked the piano. You could hear the record playing from inside.

“You sure it’s cool?” said Donny.

“It’s cool,” said Broyles, making fun of the phrase at the same time as he meant it.

The condo was nice, not big. It had a view to the west, high enough up that you could see the outline of downtown Fort Worth backlit by the little bit of light that was still in the western sky, and the green of the Tripto Labs farms fading to black. There was only one contrail arcing across the overburned sky, a late-breaking reminder of the things they had done to get them here, and the habits they had tried to break too late for it to do much good.

“Can I get you a drink?” said Broyles.

“Whatever you’re having,” said Donny.

“I suppose you want ice?”

“Only if it’s the cheap stuff. Not cored from the time of the Trojans.”

Broyles laughed.

“Sit down,” he said.