He exchanged a mocking glance with Héctor Beltrán, the 45-year-old senior salesman who was reviewing papers at his desk.

Héctor raised an eyebrow and gave a crooked smile. They both knew that kind of visitor: curious, dreamy, people who came in just to look at things they could never buy.

Javier Peña, the sales manager, was adjusting his Italian tie in front of the bathroom mirror when he heard slow footsteps in the showroom.

He came out, drying his hands with a paper towel. His trained eyes scanned the newcomer in two seconds. Worn clothes, slumped posture, threadbare backpack.

Immediate conclusion: wasted time.

Don Félix stopped in front of a gleaming white Actros. He ran his calloused hand over the chrome fender. His calm eyes scanned the cabin, the New tires, the silver star logo. He had driven trucks like that for 40 years. He knew every screw, every valve, every secret of those engines.