And that made sense, actually. If Ricardo Aguilera was one of the Mexican Reds, one of the seven families Alexander had mentioned when I asked him to tell me about it, it was more than clear that he didn’t often suffer that kind of cold.
At some point, the red wolf lifted his snout toward the tops of the pines and said with annoyance:
“Do you smell that? Beyond the smoke and the burned plastic, I mean. The air is heavy. I think it’ll be hail.” He turned over his shoulder to speak to his counterpart. “A lot of electricity—we’ll be lucky if it ends in snow. And it could be any moment.”
“What are we betting?” Alexander replied in an ironic tone.
“Friend, I don’t bet on the weather if I don’t have Richie nearby.”
I didn’t understand what they found so funny, given the situation we were in
