Visions of the last big earthquake that hit Tenochtitlán immediately filled my mind. In 2029 they’d lost the national palace, what remained of the subway system—and an entire neighborhood of residential apartment buildings that had been a lot sturdier than our hotel. I was right behind Rafael as he ran out of the room and down the corridor. A handful of people—most of them European or Asian males and all of them in various stages of undress—seemed to have the same idea. They jostled past us as we ran down the rickety steps at the far end of the hallway and out the front door.