“No way. Most likely there’s none of that, but I’m sure people are living there, because it’s close to the slum. It’s too far away, and we don’t know who could be hiding out there.”

“What if we found something!”

“Adela, that’s enough,” said Betty. “You get obsessed and you don’t let up, Gaspar is right. Can’t you see he doesn’t want to take you? Plus, you shouldn’t talk about the disappeared like that, it’s disrespectful, I’ve told you before. No one knows where the victims are. But I’m quite sure they aren’t in some refrigerators by the Riachuelo. Enough.”

“Gaspar always says no at first and then he gives in. Don’t you, Gaspar?”

Adela smiled and cocked her head; one of her braids was coming undone—they never lasted long—and Betty started to redo it neatly.

“You didn’t answer me, Betty,” said Gaspar. “Have you ever seen anything?”

Betty’s eyes looked watery, as if she were sad or they were irritated. Night was falling outside, and the waiters of the nearly empty restaurant were watching a soccer game on TV.

“I’ll tell you some other day. With Adela all worked up like this I’d rather keep my mouth shut.”

“Come on!” begged Adela. “You never tell me anything.”

“That’s because you get crazy,” said Betty, kissing her forehead. “Can you help with her language and literature homework, Gaspar? She doesn’t understand a thing. They want her to diagram sentences. I’ll come and pick you up in an hour. Sound good?”

Gaspar said yes and Adela handed him her notebook. It was messy, with the edges of the pages all folded and handwriting that looked like a younger kid’s, the trembling lines of childish fingers.

Pablo was supposed to go with his parents that day to have dinner with his grandparents, but then the outing was called off. His parents had a fight before the car even pulled out of the driveway. His mother shouted that she didn’t want to see those old fuckers, and his father replied well, he didn’t want them to see her like that, all dirty and unhinged. It was true: his mother was dirty and she smoked all the time and cried in front of the TV. He’d heard her say on the phone that maybe it would help to have another baby, but that she couldn’t “handle the experience” of losing another child. Pablo didn’t want his mother to get pregnant, didn’t want a sibling if his parents weren’t getting along: he didn’t think a baby would improve things. He had classmates with younger siblings and they said their parents fought, they couldn’t sleep because the baby screamed, and they were always tired and in a bad mood.