Toward the end he sat on the back porch, sweeping his binoculars back and forth over the dry scrub-brush and arroyos, certain he saw Mexicans moving through the creosote and sage while the TV commentators in the living room, turned up loud enough for a deaf person to hear, kept pouring gasoline on his anxiety and rage. In the end he preferred to think about illegal aliens, about welfare moms and healthcare socialists, than about the uncomfortable sensation of the disease crawling through his tunnels in the night, crossing the river between his liver and his spleen. It was just his luck to be born in the historical period that would eventually be known as the twilight of the white male dinosaur, feeling weaker and more swollen every day, with the earth gradually looking more like hell and a strange smell rising from the kitchen sink. In the background those big male voices went on and on, turning the old crank about hard work and god, waving the flag and whipping the dread into a froth. Then one day my father had finished his surveillance, or it had finished him, and the cable-TV guy showed up at the house apologetically to take back the company equipment: the complicated black box with the dangling cord, and the gray rectangular remote control, like a little coffin.