Santiago saw the expensive suit, the umbrella, the two large men standing back at a respectful distance, and every instinct a hard life had taught him fired at once.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, backing away.

“I’m going.

Please don’t call the police.” “No one is going to hurt you,” Aurelio said, but the words came out of a stranger in a suit flanked by bodyguards, and to a boy like Santiago they meant nothing.

He turned and ran into the rain — and as he ran, the folder slipped from under his arm and fell open on the wet path, and he did not stop to gather it.

Aurelio bent, with the stiffness of his age, and picked up the scattered pages.