Juan skidded to a halt when Troy opened the door to his apartment and stepped back to gesture Juan inside. His grip on Burrito Belle tightened until she made a small whine of protest.
“Santa Madre, this is un palacio! You live here all by yourself? Do you not roll around like un frijole solo en un gran olla? I knew you were not poor, but this is—it is like a home for a king, un hombre mas rico,”
Troy tried to see his familiar residence through the young Latino’s eyes. Well, it was a far cry from the homes he’d grown up in—a log-and-tin shack in the “holler” in West Virginia or the small stucco company house in Morenci, Arizona. He could probably fit both of those residences into this condo with room to spare.
The complex was one of several in the lower foothills of the Sandias, overlook
