If you could call it that. Tucked between the stanchions of an autoroute and so noisy and filled with vibrations that you’d swear the cars were driving through the hallway outside, it was little more than a flophouse in which closet-sized rooms rented for five hundred pesos an hour. Judging by the sweet smell of rotting garbage that hung in the air, it was situated close to the city dump. I hoped Rafael had the presence of mind not to use his lighter—the methane levels might be high enough to cause an explosion.