The air in the hills overlooking São Paulo didn’t just sit; it shimmered with the heat of a thousand cooking fires and the metallic tang of the nearby scrapyards. While the scions of European dynasties were being fitted for bespoke Nomex suits in temperature-controlled ateliers, ten-year-old Mateo Silva was kneeling in the red dirt, tightening a fuel line with a pair of rusted pliers.
