Juan rested his hand on the bandage and Gaspar gave a start, but then, immediately, the pain disappeared. It didn’t fade away: it disappeared as if it had never existed. His father looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked dead. He is dead, thought Gaspar.

“The wound is still there. Take care of it as if it hurt, but it won’t hurt anymore. Don’t take the painkillers, you don’t need them. Do take the antibiotics.”

“Where did the pain go?”

“I think you can guess the answer to that, son.”

Gaspar lay back on the floor. He wanted to sleep without dreaming, he wanted to sleep for years.

He was sitting on the front stoop when his uncle arrived. He recognized him immediately: the family resemblance was unmistakable, though Luis wasn’t as big as Juan and he had some gray hair. He was older, Gaspar knew, he must be around forty years old. His uncle waved at him and came running over. He was wearing a down jacket over a flannel shirt, and a bag was slung over his shoulder. When he got closer Gaspar noticed he was tanned, and it was a strange contrast to his blond hair, lighter because of the gray; he also had a lot of wrinkles. They looked at each other for a second until his uncle smiled and hugged him, tousled his hair, and said you’re so big, it’s been over three years since I’ve gotten a photo of you. Gaspar’s voice came out shaky when he said:

“There’s coffee from this morning. Do you drink coffee?”

Luis said yes, but before going in he paused to look at the house. Wonderful, he said, pointing out the wooden door, the iron shutters painted dark green, and finally the names inscribed beside the front door: O’Farrell and Del Pozo.

“They’re two famous architects,” he explained. “You live in a fantastic house.”

Gaspar felt a little ashamed when his uncle entered, because inside was not fantastic. It looked uninhabited. Luis said nothing, though he did look around, a bit surprised. Not a picture on the walls, no furniture to store things, just that yellow sofa. Gaspar was grateful for his silence. The kitchen was more welcoming, and Gaspar started heating the coffee.

“Where’s your dad?”

“I think he’s asleep.”

“I’m going to stay for a while, kiddo, you two can’t be on your own.”

Gaspar took a deep breath before asking:

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

His uncle smiled.

“I heard you talked to Mónica in Brazil. Your dad asked me not to come until he called me. You know your dad isn’t an easy person. Nor is it easy to get divorced.”

“I bet,” said Gaspar. His uncle’s voice was soothing. It was the same one he’d heard so many times on the phone, on his birthday, at Christmas, sometimes for Three Kings Day, every year for as long as he could remember. Luis didn’t feel like a stranger, though he’d only ever seen him in photos. He hadn’t called for the World Cup, and that was odd. He asked his uncle about it.