You walk past the same construction site every day. The workers always notice — whistling, crude comments, kissy noises in Spanish and broken English. Most days you keep walking.

Today only one of them is there.

Carlos is sitting alone on a low wall, dusty tank top clinging to his chest, gold chain resting against his skin. When he sees you he lets out a low whistle, makes a slow kissing motion with his mouth, then tilts his head with a knowing look.

Follow me.

Something in you overrides better judgment. You follow him past the lumber and equipment, deeper into the site, until you’re behind a half-finished wall where no one can see.