It was. The mirror in the middle, separating the two compartments, a hole in each of them. Gaspar stuck his own arm in the right-side hole: it fit comfortably. The box was pretty big, but Don Sixto had used a light wood and Gaspar could lift it effortlessly. The mirror has to be a little heavy, Sixto said, but pine doesn’t weigh a thing. Is it what you wanted?

Yes, replied Gaspar, and he looked at his own arm in the mirror. The box was perfect.

Adela was celebrating her birthday at her house. The Peiranos, of course, had offered theirs, but Adela had said no thanks, and later she’d admitted to Gaspar that she didn’t want to use that big yard for her party, which would have so few guests. It’d be more noticeable that no one had come, she said, and Gaspar understood. It was better to do something simple at Adela and Betty’s small but pleasant apartment, because one particular absence was always felt: her father’s, whom no one knew. Once, while they were washing dishes, Vicky had asked her mom if it was true that Adela’s dad had been taken away, and Gaspar, who was drying the silverware, had heard the reply: The truth is, Vicky, Betty was already alone when I met her. I don’t know who Adela’s father is and I never asked. You don’t ask about those things unless the person tells you first.

Betty had decorated the house quite well. There were streamers hung all down the passageway to the last door, the one to Adela and Betty’s apartment, which was hung with a Sarah Kay poster that said “Happy Birthday!” beside a picture of a girl smelling a rose. Adela’s grandparents were already there when Gaspar arrived, plus Vicky, and Virginia with her water game she never put down, Lucrecia, a classmate who was quite tight with the girls, and that was it. They were only waiting on Pablo, who was always late. He finally showed up with a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of a German castle with an unpronounceable name; Adela thanked him with a hug: she liked puzzles, but she liked castles even more. Betty seemed pleased and excited; the grandparents, on the other hand, sipped their sodas in silence. They were taciturn in general, not at all affectionate, not your typical grandparents. They only appeared at birthdays, and when they did speak, it was only to Betty. Adela, though, assured her friends she had a great time with them every summer when she went to their vacation home in San Isidro. The cake was very good: a sponge cake filled with dulce de leche and custard, with chocolate icing decorated with little silver sprinkles. Gaspar ate a piece after clapping during “Happy Birthday”—he never sang out loud in public—and he felt full; he’d eaten a lot of hot dogs. The grandparents asked Adela to try on the dress they’d given her; it was white, like a First Communion dress, and she modelled it with a fake smile—it was obvious she didn’t like it, but didn’t want to offend them. They left soon after. The kids waved goodbye to them and then, finally alone, they felt relieved. There was something about the grandparents that made them uncomfortable: they seemed to be there out of obligation, like they were following orders. Lucrecia also had to leave early, and then Adela sprawled out theatrically on the sofa. Pablo, who was finishing a piece of cake, offered to cut her another, and she accepted. Then, with her lips smeared with dulce de leche—it wasn’t easy for her to hold the napkin and eat neatly with only one hand—she told Gaspar: “I want my present!”