Then he climbed into his shiny red Mercedes-Benz and drove away from the rich side of the city.
For almost two hours, the world outside his windshield changed.
The clean streets disappeared.
The luxury stores disappeared.
The tall buildings disappeared.
By the time he reached Valle de Chalco, his expensive car was rolling through dusty, uneven streets filled with potholes, stray dogs, and unfinished concrete homes.
People stepped outside to stare.
A car like his did not belong there.
Neither did a man in a designer suit.
Finally, the GPS told him he had arrived.
Emiliano stared at the small house in front of him.
If it could even be called a house.
It was made of gray concrete blocks.
The roof was sheet metal, held down by old tires so the wind wouldn’t tear it away.
There was no electric gate.
No garden.
No marble.
Only a rusted wire fence and a wooden door that looked like it might fall off its hinges.
He felt disgust rise in his chest.
Then anger.
