They reached the door of an old building. “This part’s going to be a little harder,” said Bruno. “It’s on the fourth floor,” he added, hefting the bike with one hand and arching his eyebrows.

What was he doing with a bike, anyway? And if they lived so close, why had they gone to the bathroom at the library and not at their own apartment? Was that the whole point of the outing?

Above them shone the Monarch stockings sign. Neon shins. When she was little and took the bus with her mother, that sign had let her know that she was far from home. Seeing it had filled her heart with something like joy. She couldn’t remember at what point she’d grown up and realized that billboard was right in the center of Santiago. So ridiculously and inoffensively close.

The little girl held on to the bike while Bruno dug his keys from a pocket of his snug jeans, then opened the first door. There were two more to get into the building. In each doorway there was a sign that read, “Keep door closed. Crime prevention is every resident’s responsibility.” How dramatic, she thought. A slogan of the right.

The floor and stairs were green marble lined with gold metal; they were the best-conserved part of the building. The rest: a dark hallway with dirty walls, suspicious doors, broken glass.

The little girl went up first, wielding the keys, then Bruno with the bike. Claudia followed behind, taking care the back wheel didn’t hit her. After climbing the last step she found the door to apartment K open. She waited, indecisive, raising her hand to her mouth and biting a nail. She could still turn around and leave.

“Come on in,” he called from inside.

She did what she always did in such situations, which was repeat the advice she’d read in a horoscope when she was fifteen: “Leap into the unknown and have faith.” She took the next step.

Bruno’s voice called again from the next room: “You can leave your backpack there.”

She dropped it where she was standing. It didn’t seem to matter, given the apartment’s decoration: nonexistent. Except for a collapsible table, some plastic stools, a mirror, and two square wool mattresses on the floor, there was nothing there. No photos or pictures, no ornaments, no waste. It was disconcerting that a guy who seemed so concerned about his appearance would live in an empty house. And it intrigued and astonished her in equal measure. She wondered who he really was, who the two of them were.

The walls were high, with rounded moldings. The only window in the living room looked out onto the building’s inner courtyard. It didn’t let much light in, and the view consisted of clothes and towels hung out to dry on the balconies of neighbors across the way.