She also thinks: what a strange man. She looks at him sidelong but doesn’t raise her head entirely—he’s still standing and she’s still sitting. She eyes him up and down, taking in his elegant laced shoes, his light-colored dress pants and matching jacket—heavy in spite of the heat—the sporty little backpack that hangs from one shoulder, so at odds with the rest of his outfit. She observes his chubby, freckled hands, his small, blond head, his little wire-rimmed glasses and mustache, his hair standing crazily on end. She finds him funny, but not enough to let her guard down. The old man keeps talking. There are exotic species that were never seen here before, he explains, species that adapted to their new environment and became a danger for the endemic ones—he gets stuck on the word endemic and has to repeat it three times before he pronounces it correctly. But he doesn’t mind them, he continues, he likes all the species, the ones from here and the ones from elsewhere, he doesn’t care where they come from, they’re all truly extraordinary! He is thoughtful for a few seconds, and that’s when his expression changes. His eyes grow round and large as if something were just dawning on him, and his jaw trembles slightly. I’m being annoying, he says, and he apologizes for the second time. No, no, says the girl out of politeness, but he insists, distressed: he always talks too much, and if no one stops him he goes on and on. Someone has to tell him, he adds disconsolately, he just doesn’t realize on his own! He looks to either side, bows his head abruptly and says goodbye to the girl, who doesn’t know what to say or do. When she sees him turn around and bumble away through the hedges, she’s relieved to be alone again. Though he didn’t seem like he’d be a problem, she thinks. He was nothing at all like the men she’s met on other occasions, the dangerous ones.

The old man reappears at more or less the same time the next day. The girl no longer finds him amusing, and it occurs to her that he could be spying on her. Nevertheless, the man’s attitude is as shy and respectful as it was the day before. He’s wearing the same clothes, the same expression of meek astonishment. This time he asks if he can sit down for a bit. He settles in as far away from her as the hideout’s size will allow: there can’t be more than six feet between the row of hedges and the tree. Legs crossed, hands on his knees, he smiles at her, takes a deep breath. You’re not reading today?, he asks, but he asks in a way that he could have asked anything else, thinks the girl, a question to break the silence. She opens her backpack and takes out a book, one she had to buy for school, and she hands it to the old man, who reaches over to take it. Do you like it?, he asks, flipping through the pages. Yeah. Depends. I get distracted. He smiles again. What, you get really bored? No, she says. And then she adds: just normal, I get bored the normal amount.