Like every weekday for the past seven years, I slip on my surgical mask and set out down Main Street on the mile-long walk to work. I used to take the bus, but a heavy tax cut pretty much gutted public transportation services. Small price to pay, I’m told. The Dow is certainly soaring, not that I can afford to invest.

I cast a quick glance at the mangled front of the Hernandez family’s house next door. They were internally rendered a few days ago. They’ll probably be deported; they’re only three generations removed from being Mexican immigrants and the regional prefect is unlikely to place much value on their birth certificates and decades of taxpaying citizenship. The local branch of Immigration and Customs Enforcement jumped at the chance to call out their SWAT team and rolled in...

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