He and Isabel had talked a lot about what he should do if he was recognized. If someone realized he was one of the kids from Adela’s House. She had told him that if they asked, he didn’t have to answer. He could just say: I don’t talk about that. It wasn’t so easy for him to flatly refuse to talk, but he had an advantage: people hadn’t seen his face. When the cameras came to the neighborhood, they hadn’t filmed him: he had spent almost all that time at the hospital with his father. People did know what Vicky, Pablo, and Betty looked like. Adela too, thanks to the photos that were shown during the futile search. People knew he existed, they knew his name, but they hadn’t seen him, and names don’t resonate the same way.

Plus, there were other things happening. Supermarkets looted; people in the slums so poor they ate cats; a truck full of cows had turned over and some local people, with no shame at all, had butchered the animals for the barbecues they’d been missing. Adela’s House was old news. Not for Gaspar, though—every time he dreamed of her, he woke up to vomit and then kept throwing up all night, entire nights spent in the bathroom, where his uncle brought him a pillow and sat down beside the bathtub to wait for it to pass. At least he didn’t see her when he was awake anymore.

He couldn’t talk about that with his classmates.

Nor did he need to. The kids in the plaza were nice to him and always invited him to play soccer. Gaspar told them that he was awful and no one would want him on their team, but that he’d play if they wanted. It’s just a little field close by here, and we’ve got a few klutzes, said the owner of the cassette player. He went, and as usual, he played very badly but had a great time, laughing hard at the other kids’ jokes. The field was close to the school and to a rugby club that had a pool and a track. Gaspar joined so he could get back to running and swimming. He got along well with the people who went to the club. He ran or swam every day if he could, if it didn’t rain; often he went after class and before eating dinner, alone, accompanied only by the light of the club’s buffet and the owner of the restaurant, who listened to music behind the bar. At the club, late, he’d smoke a few cigarettes sitting on the grass; when he ran, he’d leave the pack beside the track along with his keys, his water bottle, and the hoodie he put on once he was sweaty. His uncle and Julieta didn’t know he smoked. Isabel did: she let him smoke during their sessions, but never more than two cigarettes.