The old man asks her if she doesn’t read magazines anymore. Not today, she says. He asks if she likes animals, and she says yeah. If she likes music, and she says of course. He asks what kind of music, and she replies I don’t know. He asks if she wants him to leave, and she says I don’t care. Then he goes quiet, the silence grows and everything goes slack: even the murmur of a mower in the distance suddenly cuts off. The girl feels all the weight of uncertainty, and she looks up to scrutinize him. She examines his face for the first time, focuses on his eyes, tiny behind his glasses, and on his thin mustache that curves slightly upward—so old-fashioned, she thinks, no one has a mustache like that these days. It must be a hard look that she gives him, because he is unable to meet it. He lowers his head, uses his arms to push himself to his feet. He picks up his handkerchief and folds it neatly, puts it into his pants pocket. An old towel is an old towel, he says, it shouldn’t be that complicated! He brought it to help her, not make problems for her. He sighs, aggrieved. I’m being annoying again!, he says. Why does he stick his nose in when no one asked him to? The girl doesn’t know what to do now. She looks at him anxiously, asks if he wants the towel back. Yes, of course, since you don’t want it, he replies. The girl hands it back and he stuffs it haphazardly into his backpack along with the rest of his things. I’m being annoying!, he repeats several times, and then, in a quieter voice: it was just a towel.

When he leaves, the girl lies on the ground—directly on the grass, now—and looks up at the sky, thoughtful. Is he angry? Will he tell on her? What should she have done to keep him from telling? Not offend him? Accept his absurd gift, that old towel that smelled of a thousand washes? Did she have to be so rude?

The blue framed by the green of the tree shifts, overtaking the silhouetted leaves. Each branch is outlined in red; she’s not blinking, and the light burns her pupils. She keeps her eyes open as long as she can, then squeezes her eyelids shut and plays at chasing the little colored spots. The image of the old man is burned into her retina, too. It’s not easy to get rid of. He’s a very strange old man.

It’s almost noon when he appears. Although part of her is already celebrating having finally gotten rid of him, another part, more hidden and incomprehensible, is pleased to see him. The old man is startled, like he didn’t expect to find her there, as if she were once again a novelty, or a discovery. I didn’t think you would come back!, he says. I came to find you yesterday and the day before, but you weren’t here. I thought you were still mad! Mad? It takes the girl a second to understand, to piece it together. The old man didn’t realize it was a weekend. She doesn’t go to the park on Saturdays and Sundays, she doesn’t need to hide on those days. If the old man hasn’t figured that out yet, it means he isn’t suspicious. This reasoning, rather than soothing her, offends her a little. So, there was no need to pretend? What an idiot. She grows bolder, speaks easily, now with no mistrust. I don’t come on the weekends, she says. Oh, okay, he murmurs, and why is that? The girl stares straight into the old man’s eyes, so small through his glasses. Because there’s no school, she says. The old man scratches his head, still not understanding. She finds herself forced to continue, almost angrily: I come here instead of going to school. His lips part, as if he were going to say something and then—on second thought—he doesn’t. He asks if he can sit down. She nods.