The reply came back in two hours in an actual, honest-to-gods Chiclets container—a tiny, bright yellow cardboard box as scuffed and dirty as the kid who handed it to me. It was empty, but when I at last thought to unfold it, I saw words scrawled on the inside. An address in Iztapalapa. No date or time. A pun, perhaps? No time like the present? I might as well find out.