At 2:47 on a Friday afternoon in late July, a silver Mercedes rolled off the paved road and stopped beside a dirt lot where steel rods rose from concrete like bones from an unfinished body.
The heat outside was merciless.
It was the kind of heat that made the air itself feel heavy, the kind that turned metal into something cruel and softened tar under tires. Men at the construction site worked with shirts stuck to their backs, hard hats bleached by sun, hands darkened by dust and labor. Nobody moved slowly because they wanted to. They moved slowly because the heat forced them to.
Daniel Ortega stepped out of the car and into the glare.
He paused for a second, as if the weather had surprised him, though he had grown up in this city. At forty-one, he looked younger from a distance. Success had polished him in all the obvious ways. His white shirt fit like it had been made for him alone. His watch caught the sun in a cold flash. Even the way he stood carried the confidence of a man who had spent years being welcomed into expensive rooms.
Workers glanced at him, then glanced again.
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