“I was riding fast and I hit a curb.”

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.