They listened. The sounds weren’t clear. Some shouts, sirens in the street. No more gunshots, at least not nearby. Marita sat on the floor and took out her lighter in order to see. When Gaspar heard it clicking—it didn’t light on the first try—he asked her not to use it, speaking aloud and taking her gently by the arm. It was the most restrained gesture he could make in that narrow place, trying to keep his calm. There was nothing evil in the little room. He wasn’t going to turn around and see shelves holding teeth, no piano or blonde Adela waving in the darkness. But if Marita used the lighter, he was going to scream, and it was possible that after screaming he would end up hugging his knees on the floor, his eyes dry. Marita obeyed: maybe she thought it was a strategy for hiding from the police. While they waited, the sounds in the building quieted. Raids, by definition, didn’t last long. Gaspar felt Marita’s arm lightly touching his, and that dispelled his fear. He wanted to get her attention, to defend her; he wanted her to leave that room thinking Hueso was a coward and a good-for-nothing and Gaspar was a hero, who, what’s more, was a much better fuck.

“Let’s go,” said Hueso.

Gaspar opened the door. For a second, he thought that his father was right beside him, standing there and saying very good, you can lock as well as open, very good. It was an instant, then the feeling vanished. Marita was talking about what incredible luck they had that the doorknob should get stuck right then, and so firmly, it was crazy. I can’t believe you could open it so easily now. It must have gotten stuck from outside, said Gaspar, a ludicrous explanation, but one that, amid the panic and adrenaline, she accepted. When they left the janitor’s closet and were walking carefully toward the hallway, Marita let go of her boyfriend’s hand, slowed down, and asked Gaspar: were you scared in there, since it was so dark? Are you okay?

He was okay. A little anxious: his chest hurt when he took a deep breath. But that was all. Marita touched his cheeks with her black-tipped fingers and thanked him.

Then, she and Hueso disappeared, mixed in with classmates they knew who were already organizing to find out where the detainees had been taken, already calling lawyers from the hallway phones. Gaspar went running toward Plaza Italia, crossed it, and reached the bar where he and his uncle had agreed to meet if there was violence. It was open, unlike all the others on Calle 7. And right away he recognized his uncle’s back, the plaid short-sleeved shirt, the sweat stains under the arms, the hair somewhere between blond and orange that was growing ever lighter from the gray.