The walk to the colmado was the longest walk of my life.

Yesterday, I was the hero of the neighborhood. People waved. "¡Ese es el hombre!" (That's the man!).

Today, the adrenaline was gone. I was just a tall, disheveled gringo walking in yesterday's clothes.

I walked into Don Ramón’s shop. The smell of frying salami was torture.

"Don Max!" Don Ramón grinned from behind the counter. "The Destroyer of Hotels! You are famous. You were on the TV."

"Ideally, I'd prefer to be famous for building them, Don Ramón," I sighed. "Un café, por favor. And a pan con queso."

Don Ramón whipped up the espresso and slapped a toasted cheese sandwich on a napkin.

"Here you go, Boss."

I reached for my wallet. Habit is a dangerous thing.

I pulled out the heavy, black titanium American Express card. The card that had bought sports cars, first-class tickets, and enough jewelry to sink a ship.

I handed it to Don Ramón.

Don Ramón looked at the card. He looked at his ancient card reader, which was currently taped together with duct tape.

"Boss, the machine is down," Don Ramón lied kindly.

"Try it," I said. "Please."

Don Ramón sighed. He swiped the card.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Try it again," I said, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. "It's an unlimited limit. It can't be declined."

Don Ramón swiped it again.

"Stolen," I whispered. She had reported the card stolen.

A line was forming behind me. A woman with a baby on her hip clicked her tongue. A guy in a moto-helmet sighed.

"Hey, Americano," the moto-guy said. "Move it. We have to work."

I stared at the sandwich. I was starving. But I couldn't pay for a two-dollar sandwich.

The shame was hot and prickly. It felt worse than the police interrogation. This was basic survival, and I was failing at it.

"I... I don't have cash," I stammered. "I'll come back."

I pushed the sandwich back toward Don Ramón.

"No, no," Don Ramón waved his hand. "Don Max, take it. Apúntalo."

"Apúntalo?"

"Put it on the tab," the moto-guy translated, clapping me on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Dominican Republic, tigre. Where everybody owes everybody. You are finally a local."

He laughed. The woman with the baby laughed.

Don Ramón pulled out a greasy notebook from under the counter. He wrote: Max - Café y Pan.

"You pay me when you win the lawsuit," Don Ramón winked.

I took the sandwich. It felt heavier than the marble block I had smashed.

"Gracias, Don Ramón," I whispered.

I walked out. I ate the sandwich on the curb, watching a stray dog trot by.

The dog looked at me. I broke off a piece of the crust and tossed it to him.

"We're in this together, buddy," I told the dog.

For the first time in ten years, I wasn't Max DeLuca, the Architect. I was just Max. And Max owed Don Ramón 150 pesos.