Not the polite kind that rolls somewhere far beyond the mountains and fades before it can mean anything, but the kind that lands hard over the house and rattles the windows in their frames. For a few seconds you lie still beneath the blanket, disoriented, listening to the rain lash the gutters and the old pipes shiver behind the walls. Monterrey storms always seemed to arrive with personality, loud and theatrical, as if the sky itself had opinions.
Then you hear the voices.
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