Juan smoked now. It made my uncle desperate, but no one could convince him to change any of his habits. He smoked more when we had our shouting matches. The Darkness had dictated the way to preserve consciousness: we had to transfer it from one body to another. Transmigrate, they would call it in other traditions. I called it occupation, because that’s what it was: stealing a body. It was a repulsive method, because it meant hijacking another life and another identity. What they didn’t know yet were the details of the method: who would be the receivers of consciousness? Could they be chosen or did they have to be marked, or discovered? The Darkness still had to dictate the steps that must be followed, and, as usual, it was hermetic and capricious. According to Juan, there was nothing true in the dictates: the Order would never achieve the transfer of consciousness because it was interpreting the words badly, or making them up, imagining things. The arguments started because I didn’t agree with him on that. I didn’t distrust the dictates like he did, or like Laura had. I believed. Didn’t the Darkness emerge from Juan, didn’t it cut and wound? Didn’t his hands turn into claws—and wasn’t that impossible, too? The difference of opinion, though, didn’t come between us. We spent nights awake, talking, and none of our fights were wholly bitter, even if they ended in slamming doors and shouting. Certainty was impossible and disbelief was impossible, because there was physical proof. It was impossible to trust, because everything was blurry. And there we were, in a place that seemed like the end of the world, full of secrets and doubts.

“Why do you want that little knife, sis?”

“For some plants. I know there’s a gardener, you don’t have to tell me, but these are my plants. I like to work on them myself.”

The impending storm was suffocating: even Gaspar had lain down on the blanket and was staring up at the sky. Was that normal? I wondered. He pays such close attention to things. I distracted him, and Gaspar, who rarely got angry, seemed on the verge of tears. Nearby, the old dog Osman was panting. It was cruel to make him spend his final days in that Misiones heat.

I saw Stephen emerge from the house. He was so pale as he entered the little garden that I got scared. Juan is fine, he’s awake and alert, he said, and my shoulders relaxed. It’s my mother. She needs to see you, alone.

“This can’t be good, judging from your face.”

Gaspar put his arms around Stephen’s leg, and Stephen picked him up.

“Come on, let’s go see your dad.” And he added: “He doesn’t need oxygen anymore; Gaspar won’t get scared.”