If a hand were to emerge now from the dark and drag him away . . . He pushed that thought away, but the cramps in his stomach lingered as a reminder. Surely the door to the bathroom wasn’t much further away. A few steps more and he would feel it beneath his outstretched hands, and all his fears would be wiped away by the light. Mathias and Diego would be proud of him and finally see him as their equal.

He advanced with greater conviction until he felt the smooth surface of the wall beneath his fingertips. He ran his hands along the wall and found the door, then felt for the handle, and pushed down. A familiar smell of chlorine and bleach told him he’d come to the right place.

He hesitated, trying to work up the courage to slip a hand into the darkness.

Idiot, he thought, feeling embarrassed even though there was nobody there to witness his fear.

He pursed his lips and stuck his arm out, feeling hot and cold at the same time. Finally he managed to feel his way to the switch, and the neon lights on the ceiling flickered to life.

The blue bathroom tiles gleamed under the cold light. A loose tap dripped water into the sink at regular intervals.

Oliver’s chest deflated as he let go of the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. There was nobody else there, nobody waiting for him.

He made for the cubicles, a row of three open doors in front of him. He chose the middle one and began to undo his trousers. He stopped at the first button.

He could feel it. He wasn’t alone anymore. There was somebody behind him. Someone else was breathing with him in the silent room—a heavy breath that smelled of garlic and tobacco.

“Hello, you little shit.”

Oliver slowly turned around, as if those words, uttered in that rough voice, were some kind of order. He was shaking.

Right there in front of him, making him feel even smaller than he already was, stood the imposing figure of his daily nightmare.

Abramo Viesel was the school janitor. He was older than Oliver’s parents but younger than his grandparents; his body was so thick that he moved with difficulty, and when he walked he rocked from side to side like a ship in a storm. But Oliver wouldn’t have called him fat. The word that came to his mind whenever he saw him was “powerful.” Like a villain in superhero comics. Powerful enough to crush him.

Oliver looked at the janitor’s hands: they were as large as Oliver’s head. He imagined his skull imprisoned by those rough, hairy fingers.

“I see you’ve worked up the courage to come all the way here on your own,” he said. “That wasn’t a good idea.”