Two men in suits ran down the slope. “Señor Vargas!” one called, and slipped a towel over their boss’s shoulders. The name pricked the boy’s attention. Everyone knew it. Alberto Vargas was the builder with billboards on every boulevard, the face that looked down from glossy advertisements, the owner behind half the cranes on the skyline.
The millionaire stood, dazed and blinking. When his eyes found the barefoot child, he seemed to return fully to himself.
Aurelio nodded. “You were in the water.”
“What is your name?”
“Aurelio. Aurelio Mendoza.”
The older man repeated it as if learning a prayer. “I will not forget.”
Two days later a black sedan rolled to the curb at the market where Aurelio was helping an elderly fruit seller carry crates. A driver stepped out, asked his name, and opened the door with a polite, practiced gesture. The elevator in the tower was glass. It rose along the side of the building and carried the boy into a view of the city that seemed to go on forever.
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