At first she thinks she’s peed herself on accident, but when she realizes where the wetness is coming from, she’s scared, doesn’t know what to do, her hands start to shake and she feels hot. What she finds when she pulls down her pants is a color more brown than red, a substance much thicker than blood, nastier than blood, though she’s heard that this is just the beginning, that later on come spurts of real blood, liters and liters of blood that are impossible to hide, and it goes on for days. What to do now? Wait for Old Man and tell him? Ask him—him!—to bring her some cloth or a pad? Act like nothing is wrong, while the blood soaks through her clothes? She stuffs in some Kleenex as best she can and waits in distress.

It had to happen, but maybe not this way, not like this.

She was one of the last in her class; it took so long she had to pretend she’d gotten it to avoid backhanded comments. Lesbos don’t have periods, did you guys know that?, Marga had said, and all the girls nodded, giggling: of course, that’s why they can’t have kids … The day her mother tried to talk to her about the subject, Soon flatly refused: I don’t need it, I don’t need it!, she shouted, offended. But she did need it, though it’s a little late to admit that now.

How long will she be like this? How long is normal? Could she die of blood loss if it doesn’t stop? Will the stains be obvious? What if it hurts? Can she complain, or is it better to keep quiet? What is she expected to do? What do others do?

When he arrives, Old Man looks at her worriedly. What’s wrong?, he asks, you don’t look so good. Soon bursts into tears. He crouches down beside her. She can tell him whatever it is, he says, he knows how to keep secrets, and plus, he’ll try to help her! But Soon feels resentful as she listens. Of course she can’t tell him. Supposedly this is an important day in the life of every girl, the day when a new phase begins—the day she becomes a woman!—but she feels more like everything is ending, and the last ties she had to the outside world have now been definitively broken. A woman? If this is what being a woman is, she doesn’t want to be one. Old Man is still there, kneeling down, thoughtful. You’re not going to tell me?, he asks. You don’t trust me? His voice rises from one question to the next, and Soon remembers his fits of fury when he feels left out. She’s afraid of offending him again—he changes so much when he’s upset—but this time she doesn’t know how to avoid it. Old Man, don’t get mad, it’s women’s stuff. Women’s stuff?, repeats Old Man, and his incipient indignation transforms into curiosity. What do you mean, women’s stuff? Menstruation, Soon explains, immediately feeling ridiculous—why did she use that word, so cold and clinical? Old Man looks at her in astonishment, until he understands and turns red like a light bulb. I don’t know what you’re talking about!, he says then, and he ducks his head as he starts to take things out of his backpack, announcing them aloud as he sets them on the grass: towel!, binoculars!, cheese puffs!, the Nina Simone biography by David Brun-Lambert! This book has a ton of mistakes!, he says, shaking it. Let me tell you!