Gaspar said yes, and he clutched the number in his fist as he lay down beside Juan—close, but far enough away not to disturb him.

Juan woke up sweaty from a dreamless sleep. It was nighttime, but the room was dimly lit: Gaspar had turned on the bedside lamp and was reading. Juan looked at him without immediately stirring: the boy had taken his book from the bag and seemed to be waiting, the paper with the phone number on the pillow beside him. Gaspar, he called, and the boy reacted with care: he put the book down, crawled over to Juan, and asked if he was okay. Just like an adult, just like he’d heard so many adults ask him when they took care of him. Juan sat up and waited a minute before answering. His heart had returned to a normal rhythm, or to what was relatively normal for him. He wasn’t agitated, wasn’t dizzy. I’m okay, yes, he said, and he sat Gaspar on his lap, hugged him, caressed his dark hair.

Gaspar pointed to Juan’s watch.

“What time is it?”

“You know how to tell time, you tell me.”

“Twelve-thirty.”

There wouldn’t be anywhere to eat still open in that town. Sure, he could walk downtown, break into some closed shop or restaurant, and take whatever he wanted—opening locked doors was very simple. But if anyone witnessed him doing it, he would have to deal with them. And all those small acts built up until they became a long and exhausting chain of footprints to erase, eyes to shut, memories to make disappear. He’d been taught this years ago: it was better to try to live as normally as possible. He could do things that were impossible for most people, but every conquest, every exercise of will to achieve what he desired came with a price. In matters of little importance, it wasn’t a price worth paying. Now, he just had to convince whoever was working on the night desk to fix them some food. He didn’t feel hungry, and surely Gaspar didn’t either. But the boy hadn’t eaten, Juan had forgotten to take the sodas out of the car, and he had to behave like a father.

However, he needed to have a wash before he could leave the room—he stank. And maybe also to cut his hair a little. Gaspar could use a bath too, though it wasn’t as urgent. He got up from the bed with the boy in his arms and carried him to the shower. He turned on the hot water and waited a while until his suspicion was confirmed.

“No way, not with cold water!” cried Gaspar.

“Come on, it’s hot out! No? Okay then, I’ll clean you off with a towel after I’m done.”