Her friends met her there at the station, a cabal of people that a later historian explaining their role in what was going on in the world would call intellectuals but Donny called fucking professors and fucking writers. Donny knew one of them, Howard Moritz, a philosopher Joyce had worked with at Rice until he got a new job in Dallas and then a political secondment to UNAM. The other expat in the group was someone Donny had heard of but never met: Wade Camacho, the singer-songwriter from Austin who had the distinction of being the first musician ever to be denaturalized for the treasonous lyrics of his songs. They all had a dinner for her, and nobody really had much to say to Donny. Maybe it was the suit, even though he left the tie in his bag, because Mexico. They knew he was still a lawyer. Agent of the state, even if a double agent. Even if he was the one who got Joyce there in the first place.

Joyce sat next to Wade, and soon she was smiling, the first real smiles Donny had seen on her in a while. He couldn’t complain.

Donny hung out in Mexico City for a couple of days. He called up an old colleague from B&E, one of the guys who had been fired the same day as Donny in the purge. Hector was bilingual, and worked the US asylum cases from there. They had coffee at the library where Hector was working. Hector tried to recruit Donny to help with the project, but Donny said I have my own projects.

The next day was when he told Joyce he had to go back. She said I know. They both knew it was over, even if neither of them said it. Something had changed in the world that made what they thought they could get back gone forever.

He flew home. It would be a few years before that became impossible. He tried as hard as he could to get the immigration officer at the port of entry to arrest him, but no such luck.

Joyce got busy in a hurry, but Donny didn’t find out about that until a lot later. After she had disappeared for good.

Part Two
The Borders of Utopia

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