The midday sun hung heavy over Rio de Janeiro, bathing the city in a golden glaze that softened the edges of even its most hardened structures.
Tourists wandered Copacabana in sandals and wide-brimmed hats, schoolchildren kicked footballs down narrow alleys, and vendors pushed carts full of sweet coconut milk and steaming pastel.
But at the intersection of Avenida Presidente Vargas and the Palacio Tiradentes, the future of a continent teetered on a thread.
Fritz adjusted his sunglasses.
He leaned against the side of a parked food truck, sipping chilled guaraná through a straw.
His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to expose a tasteful amount of sweat-slicked chest, a gold chain rested over his tasteful tan.
The image of a man who belonged. Who lived here. Who drank this drink, on this street, in this sun, every day of his life.
Behind the shades, his pale blue eyes swept the perimeter.
Flags were already being hoisted.
Red, white, and green Allied banners.
