It was a classmate named Daphne who reported Don Osvaldo’s abuse. Her friendship with Daphne was based on the fact that she’d been the only one to show up for Daphne’s seventh birthday party. As a present she’d brought a set of beads with thread to make bracelets. Daphne’s mother was so pleased that someone had shown up, she gave her all the extra party favors and let the two girls dye streaks in their hair with strawberry Yupi juice. The three of them had a very good time, and that afternoon she had envied the relationship between Daphne and her mother. They didn’t seem to be missing a father; quite the contrary: they made it clear how superfluous fathers were.

Daphne. After changing schools, she had completely forgotten that name.

She hadn’t thought about Daphne again until seventh grade, when her class was studying Greek mythology. The history book had an image of a neoclassical painting that showed a half-naked woman running through the forest with her mouth open, fear in her eyes and her arms reaching up to the sky as they transformed into branches. She didn’t turn the page for the whole hour, and she kept looking at it during recess and at home. That was when the image of her friend—the girl with a pink streak in her hair—changed in her mind and became forever that of a nymph running from Apollo. Daphne fleeing Don Osvaldo, turning into a laurel.