Gaspar leaned against his father’s bare chest and yawned. The circles under Juan’s eyes looked like he’d been punched. The ride back in the car had destroyed him. I was a little annoyed by his bad mood, but I knew him well enough to know that this was his way of showing affection—behaving like the world was a porcupine and he couldn’t find anywhere to sit.

Luis took a sip of water and explained. He was precise: I was grateful that he didn’t underestimate me.

“I work as an architect, and until last year I also had a position at a ceramics factory. My commitment in the factory was, or is, political. I also had territorial commitments. Over the past year everything got more complicated: the union secretary, a close friend of mine, was assassinated. They made it look like a car accident. I went on with my architecture studio, but two weeks ago a guy came and cornered me in the doorway and told me, “The only reason I’m not killing you is that you have a sick son.” He was wrong: my partner in the studio is the one whose kid has problems. It won’t be long before they figure that out. My girlfriend has already landed in Río. I want to meet up with her, and I can feel them breathing down my neck. Since the 24th, I haven’t been safe here anymore.”

“Your companion, she couldn’t get you out?”

“She thinks I’m chickenshit because I don’t agree with armed struggle. She left on her own. If I meet up with her, we’ll see what happens. I don’t know if she’ll take me back, but I hope so.”

“And? Are you a coward?”

“Now that they’re killing us, it doesn’t matter. From her point of view, I’m a coward, but I still believe she’s wrong.”

“You don’t have kids, Luis?”

“My girlfriend has two daughters and I’ve raised them as my own. I don’t have my own kids, not yet.”

“Can we talk about how to do this?” said Juan. I ignored him.

“Do you want to freshen up, Luis? The hot water in this house is a pain in the neck, but if you don’t mind lukewarm water, you can take a shower or a bath, whatever you prefer. Then we’ll talk about the details. I go to Paraguay once a week, for work, sometimes with my sister. We often cross over to Brazil because there’s a really nice restaurant on the border. We could do it today, even. Or tomorrow morning. The soldiers know me.”

“Things have changed,” said Luis.

“I’m sure they haven’t changed that much. They’ll let us cross without problems. Have you been to the border here? It’s pretty lax, and there are surnames that carry weight in these parts. Like mine.”

Luis got up to thank me, and his hug was sincere.

“Thank you,” he said into my ear. “We barely even know each other. You once promised to help me, and I haven’t forgotten.”