I couldn’t breathe; the air was too thick with tar and salt and panic. Alejandra Expósita. It was a surname they gave to foundlings, to orphans, to abandoned children. It wasn’t my name: I’d never truly had one. Morales must have given it to the authorities as proof of my illegitimacy, my baseless existence.

She’s not you, I told myself, fumbling open the packet of cigarettes. Not any more. And yet, I’d chosen del Potro, named myself for the very place I was trying to escape. I could have picked anything: Moreno, Gómez, Ávila … I put one of the cigarettes in my mouth, only to realize that I didn’t have any matches. I forced myself to breathe as if I was smoking anyway, to slow the racing in my chest. No. For better or worse, the inn had shaped me. It was mine: the only thing I had ever known. I wouldn’t let them take that from me, too.

When I looked up again, the beach was all activity. A boat had appeared and men were striding towards the waves, away from a figure in black, who stood overseeing everything. I tucked the cigarette into my jacket pocket, keeping my eyes on that man.

I waited until the work was done. Only when all the contraband had been stacked on a wagon and hauled away, when all men had been paid and the man in black had closed his satchel did I stand and walk towards him.

‘Señor Bautista,’ I called. He turned. His eyes were blank as they took in my suit and my hat. I hid my trembling hands in my pockets.

‘Who wants him?’ the large man who dealt with the men said, stepping up beside Bautista. A brute, a boot and fist man. I’d seen his kind before.

‘I—’ My mouth lost all its moisture. ‘I lost my papers. I heard you might be able to help.’

‘Get lost,’ the brute said.

Bautista continued to stare. I knotted my guts about my heart.

‘I can pay.’ I wrenched the ten-peseta note from my pocket. After all my expenses, I had fifteen left; five would be enough to survive another week or so, if I was frugal. ‘I can pay well for the papers.’

Bautista smiled. His face was ordinary, forgettable with its donkey-grey beard, but in that moment I was afraid, for there was something about his expression that reminded me of Morales. The money fluttered in my outstretched hand.

‘Where are you from, chico?’ he asked, after a while.

‘North.’

‘And you have no papers?’

‘They were stolen.’

‘They were stolen,’ Bautista repeated, holding my gaze. ‘Well –’ he beckoned for the money. I let him take it, but kept hold of the other end. ‘Chico,’ he chided mockingly.