On the street we pass an aged pickup truck. The driver holding a loudspeaker to his mouth causes a rhythmic drone: “Scrap metals, chatarras, bronze, cobre, hierro viejo, lavadoras, secadoras, aires acondicionados dañados. Two young men ride in the open back to accommodate the scrap air conditioners, washers, dryers, and miscellany. This is the only music I hear on this visit. These sounds, too, are home.