The fact that it’s all made up is revealed gradually. She stops lying out of laziness. Reality imposes itself, and she runs out of energy to go on fabricating. Without openly admitting it, the real Soon makes her way out through that irritating false Soon. Middle-class Soon whose parents are just doing their best, their normal family vacations in summer; solitary Soon, clumsy and plagued with hang-ups; angry Soon, unfair to those around her, rude at times; misunderstood Soon; Soon with no one who listens, except now that she’s at least found this man, Old Man, who only talks about birds and Nina Simone, and who never lies.

There is a constant threat from the workers who patrol the park daily in their various tasks. The ones who wear an orange uniform are working on remodeling the duck pond. They destroyed its fountain and now they’re building another one, uglier but—apparently—safer. Then there are the ones in green uniforms, who are the gardeners, and who make a great racket with their lawnmowers, hedge trimmers, and weed eaters. Finally, the ones in yellow work on cleaning. They sweep leaves from the main walkways and punctually empty garbage cans. All of them—orange, green, yellow—work very responsibly and hardly ever take breaks. Soon sees them when she arrives, when their days are also just beginning, and she avoids looking them in the face when their paths cross. They’re all men and they all inspire deep respect in her, not exactly because they are men, but because of what they could do if they noticed her there, alone or accompanied. When she hears them on the other side of the hedges, she holds her breath until they move off. Sometimes she catches snippets of their conversations. One complains about his wife. Another says he has a new grandson. Many of them talk about soccer. And then there are stray sentences that, taken in isolation like that, are disconcerting: “One crack with the ax and it’s swept under the rug,” for example. Or: “The whole cookie fad just makes me nervous, what can I say.” Soon worries about them getting too close, especially when Old Man is around, when they could be overheard talking or laughing. There shouldn’t be anything strange about her being there chatting with whomever she likes—a friend who could well be her uncle or father—but even so, she realizes it’s best to hide.

One day when they’ve both stood up to say goodbye, an orange worker walks near them and looks them up and down suspiciously. Then he slowly walks away, turning back several times. Soon knows she is hanging by a thread, that sooner or later someone will come asking questions, but that sense of precariousness, rather than scaring her, grants her a certain status, a special place beside her friend, and it ties her to him, since the two of them now share a secret.

She never would have thought there were so many different birds in the city’s parks. But it’s just a matter of paying attention! Of training your eyes! Old Man writes them down in a notebook, in his spiky, careful handwriting from another era: 1. Blackbirds, which as she can see are everywhere; 2. Starlings, careful, because they imitate the songs of other birds and confuse you; 3. Robins, known for their speed in assembling a nest—a gardener left his jacket hanging at nine in the morning and picked it up at one in the afternoon, with a nest in the pocket!; 4. Crested tits, useful as natural insecticides—they eat everything! 5. Serins, with their unmistakable, raucous song—there aren’t many, but they make themselves heard!; 6. Willow warblers, so tiny and hard to see!; 7. Wagtails, white ones and yellow ones, always near the water, of course; 8. Goldfinches—one of them pulled the thorns from Jesus Christ’s head; 9. Swifts, so hardy they sleep while they fly … Shall I go on? Tomorrow, Old Man, it’s already a lot, she says.