The jacket found Sabado Sanchez on a Saturday night in May. It lay against the sidewalk pavement, lapels bathed in damp moonlight, sleeves outstretched as if to embrace the sky. The streets in this part of Trampos were empty, and the deep brass sound of jazz carried along on some thread of wind from downtown. A dog trotted by, carrying a rat in its mouth. The jacket waited. It wouldn’t be long now.