So late yesterday afternoon, Jack and I got caught in rush-hour traffic crossing back across the border into Mexico. Mark was catching a ride home from work from our neighbor. Then I got a message from him — “Locked out.” I felt terrible. I had left without remembering that the main door was locked from the inside with his key. As we crept along, I felt worse and worse. What would he do? Call security? Go to the neighbor’s? Finally, an hour after his message, we dragged into our garage and Mark appeared just behind us, out of the night, smiling. He had wandered over to the small playground/park in our neighborhood atop a Tijuana hill. “I just sat there, enjoying my view,” he said.