Gaspar got out of school a little early that day because of a bomb threat. There were threats almost every week and he knew they were made by the kids in seventh grade, but the principal didn’t dare ignore them. When the calls first began, she had summoned the sixth- and seventh-graders to an assembly and given them a speech about how democracy had only recently returned to Argentina, and it could easily be lost again. Unfortunately, she said, these matters must be taken seriously, because we have lived through very hard times in this country. Many of the kids exchanged looks during the talk, not understanding what the principal was talking about. Gaspar did.

He walked home despite the cold and a slight headache that, he thought, wasn’t going to turn into a migraine. Just in case, he stopped at the pharmacy and bought a blister pack of aspirins. They didn’t have much effect on him anymore, but the doctors, including Vicky’s mom, said he was still too young to take anything stronger. He took stronger things anyway: his dad gave them to him. There’s no reason for you to suffer, he said. Gaspar agreed. Sometimes his headaches kept him from swimming; they didn’t go away even after he slept, and not long ago he’d dreamed he was scooping his own eyes out with spoons, as if they were servings of custard. It was always his eyes that hurt first, and it was hard to move them; then came that feeling of wearing a tight helmet. First, sometimes, he’d see black shapes like flowers opening, especially if he looked up: flowers in the sky. An aura, he knew it was called. It was a warning.

He swallowed the aspirins without water, and it felt like the bitter taste stuck to his palate. He went inside intending to go straight to the kitchen for some water to wash away the aftertaste, but he stopped when he found his father in the living room, sitting on his yellow sofa in front of the TV, which was on though he wasn’t watching it.

“Come here, son.”

Gaspar approached and saw that his father had a cardboard box beside him, fairly tall, the kind a small appliance would come in.

“Esteban left?”

“This morning. Look what I have, Gaspar, check it out.”

Gaspar looked first at his father’s face. He was smiling with one eyebrow arched, and he was drunk. That was a terrible sign. Every time he took a breath, his chest made a noise. Oh, this is bad, thought Gaspar. It’s one of those times: Esteban took off and left my dad all crazed. He was going to have to obey if he wanted to avoid the beatings, the shouting, or some worse punishment.

“Put your hand in.”