He drove, following the truck: they were headed to Lloret. Before they got there they left the highway and entered a housing development, passing over empty streets named after flowers. The street where they stopped only had one sidewalk, with detached houses. To build the houses they had emptied out the granite, which still showed its teeth between some of them. There were houses with swimming-pool blue awnings, rolled up and faded, lethargic summer homes with lawns hibernating in front. A single car parked on the entire street, no smoke from any chimney—little hills filled with empty houses. The trucker got out of his cab with the flowers in his hand. “You thought I was gonna take you to some club, banker?” When he had to make a big decision—approving a mortgage, giving a credit line for a risky business operation—the bank employee thought about his daughters. Normally he decided in their favor, but sometimes he decided against them. The trucker rang the doorbell. They heard a girl’s voice.
