Once, Gaspar had tried to follow him. He’d heard his father coming in and out at night and was curious to find out where he was going. He was around eight years old then, and the night was cool. He’d gone out to the sidewalk, looked both ways, and was surprised not to see his father, who had just left the house. He thought maybe a car had been waiting for him—sometimes a driver came to pick him up—but when he looked closer, he saw that Juan was simply leaning in the doorway of the house next door, hiding, waiting to catch him. Gaspar didn’t hesitate and ran back inside. Before he could start up the stairs, he felt his father grab him by the ankles and in the same movement slam the door so hard that, Gaspar thought, it could have woken the neighbors. Juan knocked him down with a single motion, and when Gaspar tried to get up, he pinned his arms against the floor. It was like being held by metal handcuffs. He still remembered his father’s face so close-up, his pale lips and furious eyes: the hands that pressed him to the floor were trembling with rage, and Gaspar was mute with terror. He didn’t understand why it had been so wrong to follow him, but lying on the ground with his father on top of him like a savage animal, sniffing him—he remembered thinking he was a wolf about to bite his throat—he understood it was worse than he’d imagined, that it might just be unforgivable.

His father spoke to him. What are you thinking, following me like that? And then he wrapped his hands around Gaspar’s neck and squeezed. Not hard, but Gaspar was so scared he couldn’t breathe. Sometimes even now, years later, he woke up feeling like he was being choked, and he had to get out of bed and take deep breaths while he paced around his room. The strangling hadn’t lasted long. His father let go of his neck, picked him up—Gaspar tried to kick him and received a slap that made his nose bleed: he couldn’t fight his father—and carried him up the stairs, holding his legs to keep him from struggling. When they got upstairs, Juan opened one of the rooms that were closed off, the walls stained with dampness and the wooden floor burned in parts. A completely empty room with broken, fallen blinds. You’re staying here, he said. Gaspar looked up at him from the wooden floor. He’d hit his head, but he was so scared it didn’t even hurt.