Arturo. Driving through a valley near the coast, I pass through large areas of light and shade as the road winds. I stop at the Centro Contra'arte, an underground cement compound that has been overtaken by vines and bushes. It appears that I am getting back to work from an extended lunch, as is the woman standing next to me. The freight elevator is broken so we have to tap on a window. We are admitted by a colleague who chides me for the length of my lunch hour. "Look at Arturo," he says, gesturing to a Mexican teenager in the corner who has been mouthing the words to whatever is blasting on his headphones. "At least he's been here."