That was how he liked it, the man who was generally unfriendly, except to the locals.

Now in Mexico, with a wife, dogs and a number of aliments, he felt anchored for the first time in a long time. A flame tree spread next door and a jacaranda tree painted purple in the garden and the bees flew low over the Rosio when the sun came out and heated the nectar. He had a maid and a doctor he trusted. Life at 9,000 feet often meant extreme UV radiation, but he never used sun screen. He didn’t have time.

There was a criminal, who sometimes sat on the park bench. He’d pretend to be waiting for a friend. Actually, he was more a drunk than a criminal and he kept a bottle of liquor in a bag and he would sip it until his eyes got glassy. Then he would…