Dr Cheryl allowed Carlos to sit in on her Immigration Law classes. Social activists like her didn’t let regulations get in the way of things. Not where a sense of righteousness was concerned. ‘You don’t have to enrol. You’ve got a right to learn,’ she’d told him.
At uni he used his mother’s name—Rodriguez. He was just one of the class. Lisa Hartigan was the outsider. She was from the Department. Carlos admired her, the way she stood up for herself, argued the case against the ones she called do-gooders. At the end of semester he got paired with her during a group exercise. His heart skipped just a little until he remembered she could have him on a plane tomorrow if she really knew who he was. At the end of the class she asked if he wanted to join her for a drink. He’d have given anything—nearly anything—to be able to say yes.