Soon waits for him, biting her nails, a knot in her belly, shivering. It’s no longer pleasant at the hideout in the morning, especially on sunless days, when the damp grass never dries and the dew soaks through her clothes and seeps into her skin, a dirty feeling all day long, reminding her of her deception. The deception she is living within, thinks Soon, that deception—that sham—that has everything to do with the certified letter she now has in her pocket. Old Man comes through the bushes and opens his arms with a smile. What happened to you yesterday? Why didn’t you come?, he asks. I had a fever, Old Man, she tells him, and my throat hurt, but that’s not important, it was actually lucky, if you think about it, because just by chance she was there alone when the mailman came, so she was the one who received the letter and signed for it. The mailman is lazy and apathetic and he turns a blind eye at delivering a letter to a minor like Soon: another stroke of luck. The fact is, the letter is in her hands.

She gives it to him straightaway and Old Man reads it slowly, moving his lips in silence, still standing, visible to any workers who might pass nearby—this one time, it doesn’t matter. A copy of the file transfer, he says, that’s what they’re asking for, right? She nods, swallows. A paper that should have been handed in when the old registration was cancelled, and that is essential. There’s a deadline, she says, did he read the letter to the end? Fifteen business days, she says—she doesn’t fully know what business means in this context, but she does know that fifteen days sounds soon, very soon. What are we going to do?, asks Old Man, and she is comforted that he speaks in plural, because it means the problem is now both of theirs, and he’s not going to abandon her. What are we going to do?, he repeats, but his question isn’t a lament; rather, he’s really trying to come up with an answer, to get out of the problem, to solve it. What if we fake the document?, suggests Soon. All they’d have to do is find an example online and copy it, stamp it—even with a stamp from something else, any stamp will do. Héctor, the boy who skipped school so much, faked dozens of doctor’s notes that slipped through the cracks for years before he was found out. The point is to buy some time, says Soon, but a gust of cold air shakes the tree and a handful of leaves falls onto them, reminding them that buying time doesn’t matter, because the time will come all the same, and soon it will be winter.

We could do nothing!, says Old Man. He knows from experience that sometimes deadlines are not met, and nothing happens. This—he says, shaking the letter in his hand—this, he repeats, is nothing but a bureaucratic formality, a letter that someone printed and sent because it was time to do it!, but one they won’t follow up on closely, you’ll see. Someone, a different person, will have to remember that there was a deadline and that the deadline has passed; someone will have to realize that, in effect, no one has responded to the document request; someone will have to consult the next measures that must be set in motion, and then set them in motion! If along the way someone—another someone—decided to contact her parents by phone, they would find out it’s a wrong number, which could bring up further doubts, but … that’s also called buying time! Soon listens to Old Man’s reasoning, and his confidence as he analyzes future possibilities is comforting. Look, he says, kneeling down beside her, putting his hand on her arm—putting his hand on her arm, Soon recognizes—we still have a lot of time. They might send a second and a third request before they take any more drastic measures. That’s how it often is, he explains, bureaucracy has its deadlines, they’re unavoidable, they approach slowly, step by step—but slowly!