Oddly, because of the four of them he was the one who listened best and argued least, Gaspar always refused to believe this version. “No way you remember that,” he’d tell her. “You were two years old. I can barely remember my mom, and she died when I was six.”

“Well, this was very traumatic,” said Adela, emphasizing the word “traumatic,” which she had learned recently.

“Are you dumb or something? My mom’s death was traumatic, too.”

“You must remember something.”

And Gaspar would repeat that sure, he remembered something, but very little, he wanted to remember so much more; his memories were like photos, short movie scenes with no connection. And nothing at all from when he was two. No one remembers being two, it was impossible, he insisted.

“Anyway, I don’t care if you lie,” he’d say, making Adela furious. “But with some things you have to lie better.”

Adela always came out of these arguments with her face and ears very red; she was freckled and exaggeratedly blonde, so light that her pale skin made her teeth look yellow. She had small brown eyes under nearly white eyelashes.

“You guys wait here,” said Gaspar when they reached Castelli Park.

They complied: Adela used her raincoat to dry off a wooden bench, and the three of them sat in silence. The park took up twelve blocks and had a school and two swimming pools—one outdoor and one indoor; Gaspar swam there on weekends, when the one at school was closed—as well as a rose garden and a huge fountain that sprayed streams at different heights, synchronized to give the impression the water was dancing. There was also a carousel in the playground area, but they were too big for that stuff, except maybe the swings; the girls, especially, loved the swings, and also the rose garden, with its nineteenth-century gazebo, dark green vines and red pebble pathways that stained your sneakers.

Gaspar returned quickly from the bike shop and organized the search: Pablo would take the part of the park that went from the school to the avenue with the church; he would take the fountain and the pools; and the girls would split the rose garden and the area around the subway entrance. Really look, he told them. She could be scared. Look behind all the trees and under all the benches. The school is closed, but I’m sure there’s a caretaker. Pablo, ring the bell and check with him. I’ll do the same at the pool. In one hour, we meet back here. The others nodded, and before they started the search, Gaspar bent over to drink from a fountain shaped like a lion’s head, made of old blue ceramic tiles. The water spilled over and left a small, bloody river over the red earthen path.