I asked if I could see the boy, and after a few days they let me. They gave him one of the main bedrooms, which surprised me, because I figured he would be put in the service room. I went in on tiptoe, I remember. They had told me I should be careful, because if he was startled it could kill him. But as soon as I saw him, I knew this boy wasn’t going to die easily. He had a hardness in his gaze that reminded me a little of the kids who worked the fields, but there was also a certain haughtiness. I said hi to him, I remember, and he didn’t answer. He speaks when he wants, Jorge told me, nothing is easy with him. His lips were dark, bluish, as were the fingertips resting atop the white sheets. The circles under his eyes were like stains on his pale skin, and his hair was cut too short, so blond it looked white. You’re like a ghost, I told him, and his gaze pierced me and I giggled a little. That same night I went to visit him again; the nurse had orders not to let anyone in, but she wasn’t about to stop the daughter of Mercedes Bradford. My mother inspired an incomparable terror.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Juan said as soon as he saw me come in. “I’m not a ghost. Ghosts exist. I see them if I want, and if I don’t want to, I don’t see them.”

Thus began our habit of talking every night. Juan not only filled the void left by Betty’s departure, he became my brother and my confidant. There were things he didn’t understand, like when I came back fuming over something at school or upset by some insult from Mercedes or a classmate, but even when he was so little, he wanted to help me. Sometimes I stayed and slept with him: the bed was big and he had to sleep in a seated position, propped up by pillows, because he couldn’t breathe when he lay down. I adored him from the start. I always wanted to take care of him, but I also respected him, and in some way I feared him, and also honored the distance he imposed. He didn’t go to school, and I loved to reinforce the lessons from his private tutors by reading him poetry, which he liked from a young age, or myths, and even taught him to listen to music, something he never really learned. We weren’t allowed to run or play any rough games, but he showed me his scars, in bed at night, lit by the moon. You’re like Frankenstein’s monster, I told him, and I remember how he didn’t understand and I promised to read him the novel. And we read it, for months.