What is he looking for in her? Is he trying to get at the burning question? Her age? The fact that a girl her age is there, in the park, sitting against a tree at this time of day? If that’s what this is about, the old guy is beating around the bush before trapping her, like a predator that spots its prey but takes its time before pouncing. Maybe he’s hoping to win her trust so that later on, when she least expects it, he can catch her unawares.

This is what the girl thinks, confusedly, when she’s alone, but when he’s there with her, when she observes him carefully, she’s not so sure. Maybe he’s just bored, an early retiree who doesn’t quite know what to do with his time, a pain in the neck, a wimp, even a dirty old man. But not a snitch. He doesn’t seem to have it in for her.

The old man puts a finger to his lips and closes his eyes. He concentrates on listening to the song of a bird flying above them. The girl stays silent, waits on pins and needles. A robin, the man finally announces, triumphant.

She’s annoyed by all the liberties he takes. This was her spot, hers alone—aren’t there any others in the park?

The next day he brings her a towel. A thin towel, old and rough, beige with brown designs on the ends. When he takes it from the backpack to offer it to the girl, she catches a whiff of cheap detergent. This way you won’t have to sit on the ground, says the old man. There are a lot of bugs, and the grass is itchy! The girl takes the towel cautiously. The truth is that she’s thought about sneaking one from her own house, but her mother, so organized and infallible, would notice it missing immediately. Plus, in her family they don’t use such old, thin towels. All their towels are fluffy, very large and soft, hundredpercentcotton—as her mother always says—same as the hundredpercentcotton sheets and the hundredpercentcotton underwear: they’re the best, but they’re no help to the girl because they’re too bulky to hide in her backpack. So she thanks him, but mumbles: I can’t take it home with me. Why not? Why can’t you take it home with you? My mother would ask where I got it, she replies. It’s so obvious! The old man raises an eyebrow skeptically, as if he didn’t entirely understand. So tell her the truth! Tell her I gave it to you, she won’t think you stole it, will she? The girl looks at him in silence with the towel still in her hand, hanging down to the ground. The old man is standing too, looking back at her in surprise. He must have noticed a change in her, a cautious distance. What’s wrong?, he finally asks. Did I do something wrong? The girl shakes her head. No, no, it’s just that she doesn’t like for people to worry over her. Why not? What’s wrong with worrying about other people? The girl doesn’t reply. She spreads out the towel and sits in the middle, not leaving any room for the old man. He, in turn, sits down on his ridiculous little handkerchief, as far away from her as possible. Does the old man expect her to invite him to sit next to her, on the towel, side by side, like two friends having a picnic? Is it rude if she doesn’t? She is so rattled that she no longer knows the right thing to do: neither the right thing in general nor the right thing for her, at that moment.