His tone held no threat and Gaspar wanted to ignore him, to keep walking and pretend he hadn’t heard, but instead he answered. What do you want? he yelled. For you to come upstairs a while, his father said, his voice loud but not a shout, free of any violence or mockery. Gaspar obeyed. The wooden steps creaked a lot; there used to be a rug to muffle footsteps, he remembered, but it was gone now. Maybe his dad had pulled it up—it could have been fuel for one of his periodic bonfires. He didn’t know, and in fact only remembered the existence of that rug now, as he hurried up the stairs.

The door to his father’s library-study was open, and once Gaspar saw him lying on the sofa with a book beside him, he entered without fear. He didn’t sit down, but leaned against the desk, surveying the messy books, an unfinished drawing, the closed notebook with its dark covers.

“How are you?”

Gaspar shrugged and heard his father stand up; he didn’t look at him until he sensed him very close.

“You can stay mad at me forever, but I don’t know if it makes much sense.”

Juan’s eyes shone in the room that was lit only by the small lamp he used for reading. He was wearing a gray long-sleeved shirt that was too small for him and showed how thin he was. Gaspar took a deep breath before speaking.

“Why did you make me touch what was in that box?”

The library was hot and smelled of dust; his father, freshly bathed and with still-wet hair, smelled of soap.

“Sometimes I’m not myself. I apologize.”

Gaspar shivered.

“What does that mean, you’re not you?”

“It means exactly what I said: sometimes I’m not me.”

Gaspar rested his elbows on the desk and idly picked up the drawing his father hadn’t finished. It looked like a small city, a few houses on a plain and in the sky a black sun or maybe a scribble, but very big and centered.

“Why do you never tell me what it is you do, what all of this is?” Gaspar indicated the books, the closed doors, the dark corners.

“Your friend Vicky—does her father tell her what he does, for example?”

“Yeah. He’s a pharmacist.”

“And what else does she know, other than that he’s a pharmacist? Does she know how many antibiotics he sells in a week? Does she know how the prices change? Whether insulin is free? Does she know if he’d like to have a specialized section for homeopathy?”

Gaspar clenched his teeth.

“Maybe she does.”

“Of course she doesn’t know. What does Pablo’s father do?”

“Something with gas.”

“What does he do with gas?”

“I don’t know! Puts it in cars.”

“Why is it put into cars? You think Pablo knows more than you?”

Gaspar gave in.

“But it’s not the same thing. What you do is weirder.”

“How many times have we had this conversation before? It’s boring, Gaspar.”