As with the long list of previous mine disasters and deaths in this region, no company, no government agency, no trade union, has been held accountable.
Caroline Tracey
At the start of the COVID-19 quarantine, I moved into my girlfriend’s apartment, a renovated garage in a triangle of blocks where three Mexico City neighborhoods come together. We share it with Lázaro, a handsome, anxious, black-and-brown half greyhound that Mariana adopted four years ago after a friend found him curled up under a truck.
We quickly took on a slower, quieter pace of life. We spent long mornings reading in bed, drinking coffee, and snuggling with Lázaro. We made the small space ample: I at my desk in the garage, Mariana in her woodshop on the roof. Every meal home-cooked. But more than anything, Lázaro’s need to go out, daily something that Mariana said had, in certain other seasons, kept her out of the worst depths of depression structured our quarantine.