His five-year-old son Milo sat in the back seat of the black SUV, swinging his legs as he recounted the spelling test he had aced at Westlake Preparatory Academy. Augustine listened with half an ear, answering with the usual encouraging sounds while checking stock reports on his phone.

The SUV came to a stop near an intersection where a traffic light blinked red. Vendors crowded the sidewalks, selling fruit from rusted carts. A pair of teenagers passed by, pushing a shopping cart filled with scrap metal. Graffiti sprawled across every surface like the city itself was crying out.