Islaparolada district. A factory covering an area of about 400 square meters.
The sign hanging at the entrance had a semblance of legitimacy: "Mexican New Generation Hope Technical School."
It was October and fall had arrived, yet Ryan was still wearing short sleeves, shouting through a megaphone at the twenty-odd skinny adolescents sprawled on the ground, "Hold it up! Hold it up! What the hell are you doing? Fucking the ground?"
While speaking, he stepped on the buttocks of a kid next to him, and the latter collapsed to the ground, both arms shaking.
"If you want to make money, you must endure hardship. Even whores have to wear out the sheets every day, and you don't have what it takes for that. You can only suffer more. Let me tell you, if you don't pass in 3 weeks, you all can fuck off."
