Rojo watched—or rather sensed through stubbornly shut eyes—the sun rise between the buildings across Calle 53 from where he lay on the sidewalk, feeling for the inevitable inversion of temperature, the moment when the concrete beneath his body ceased to be a source of warmth against the night air and, for a brief, glorious time, became a source of coolness against the sun-heating air, before eventually everything was as hot as the light beneath his closed eyelids and he gave into the demands of the day and awoke to find, as usual, his little pack scattered along the sidewalk around him still dozing, twitching with dreams, yawning, stretching languidly, sniffing and stumbling to familiar corners to conduct the morning business of marking, keeping the territory intact, the younger dogs playing here and there, wasti...

Please subscribe to keep reading.