Gaspar felt how his father came closer and sniffed at him in a way that struck him as . . . possessive? Something like that. As if he could eat him, but for real. Though it was also affectionate.

“How many times have I told you why you need to be careful? We’re alone. I’m sick. If they think I don’t take good care of you, they’ll come for you. They’ll separate us. I can’t be keeping tabs on you all the time.”

“I know. It was nothing.”

“Okay. Wash it well with soap.”

“I already used hydrogen peroxide and washed. You think the stain will come out of my jeans?”

“I have no idea,” Juan said, and took a long drag on the cigarette. He picked up the mug of tea he’d left on the floor and turned off the lamp. “If it doesn’t, you can buy another pair.”

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“Better. You?”

“Yeah. I’m going to the park to see if they can fix my bike. I’ll probably go around to Pablo’s, too.”

“Whatever you want. I’ll be in my room.”

“Upstairs or down?”

Juan hesitated a moment. Finally, he said: “Down.”

“I’ll be home later to sleep. Do you have food?”

Juan didn’t answer, but he came over to Gaspar and slowly opened the hand he had squeezed into a fist, rubbing his palm as if to warm it.

Pablo heard and then saw Gaspar and his bike rounding the corner. As always, the sight of his friend brought an automatic smile to his face, then he forced himself to be serious: he was ashamed to show how happy he was to see Gaspar. He wasn’t the only one who reacted like that. Everyone loved Gaspar, from the kiosk attendant to the corner grocer to the mechanic, not to mention almost all the parents and the girls who laughed when they saw him go by. Gaspar lived in a mansion and went to the most expensive school in the neighborhood, which was bilingual and had its own pool, but he didn’t act arrogant or make you feel like he had money, he was normal and generous and he’d lend you anything, clothes, a VCR, his video rental card, books. Gaspar’s life was very different from the others”: his father, who was sick and almost never left the house, didn’t work. A woman came to clean and cook for them: she left their food ready while Gaspar was at school, and he almost never saw her. Other visitors—lawyers and accountants, according to Gaspar—brought money and took care of the school tuition fees and the bills. No one lived like that, with everything just taken care of, at least no one Pablo knew. Even though the Petersons were rich, they didn’t live like rich people: they hardly had any things. But they never lacked for money, and if they ever needed something, those strange employees would appear right away, as if they were standing guard.