The parking lots of the taquerias are empty. Except for the big one, the one they’ve always gone to even when they didn’t live here. That one is full of Mini-Coopers and Jettas. And now the houses are all painted in earth tones. The flowerbeds have expensive plants in them, the porches are decorated like Pottery Barn. There are wind chimes now. And animal clinics. And signs in the yards that say Reynolds Roofing or Back Yard Gardeners or Cottage Renovations. And the bell that rings from the yellow tricycle that the hombre pedals from street to street is seldom heard anymore.