Gaspar pretended to exert himself, to clench his teeth from effort, to pry the door with the crowbar. Really, he was doing nothing more than resting the tool in the door frame. It was already open. He kicked it hard so it would seem like all one movement, that the kick accompanied the effort of his arms and the lever. When it opened, his friends stepped back. Gaspar had to lean over to catch his breath and calm down: once again, he hadn’t exerted himself physically, but afterward his body reacted as if it had moved something very heavy. During those moments of recovery, he didn’t see what it was that had made the others retreat.

There was light inside the house.

Adela went in, determined. Gaspar went after her and sensed the other two following behind him. Vicky grabbed his hand and he squeezed it. What they saw was impossible, because the light seemed electric, but there were no lamps hanging from the ceiling: there were holes from which old cables peeked out like dry branches. The place also smelled like disinfectant; a little like a hospital, thought Gaspar, but he didn’t say anything. Just inside the door there was an old black telephone. It was unplugged, they could see the cord, but Vicky said into Gaspar’s ear: Oh, please don’t let it ring. Pablo, who had gone a little farther in, was turning in circles and looking around.

“It’s too big,” he said, without looking at them. “This house. It’s bigger inside than out.”

He was right. The living room, or entrance hall, or whatever that first room was, seemed empty and had three windows, though from outside only two were visible. There were only two. Gaspar felt Vicky’s nails digging into his arm, his good one—she was careful, as he’d never told her the injured one didn’t hurt, or Pablo either, even though Pablo knew what had happened. Then she said out loud:

“Let’s go. It’s buzzing.”

Now Gaspar heard it too, thought it was very faint, at a low frequency, like when the stereo was left on and it vibrated almost imperceptibly. It was as if colonies of bugs lived behind the walls, hidden under the paint. Tiny bugs, maybe winged. Night butterflies. Black beetles. He thought that any second now the paint, a very light canary yellow, would start to peel and let the bugs fly out. He imagined swarms of moths, those creatures that turned to ash when you caught them.

Being an orphan meant bearing ashes.

Adela went ahead, excited and unafraid. She went farther into the house that was lit by its own private sun, the house that was a different house inside. Pablo called to her to wait, wait, but she didn’t listen. The vibration drew her onward. The light, which was not electric or at least didn’t come from any ceiling lamps, made her look golden.