A shopping-mall-white light is coming from the swimming pool bar, and I’m certain that Gerardo must be there with Shorty. That light erases any sense of intimacy, and as I cross the threshold it occurs to me that I’m going to be subjected to an interrogation. I’m dressed, but it’s as if I were naked. I have the feeling that my thoughts and what I’ve been doing in the TV lounge are on view, but I don’t have the energy to leave the bar. Four of the high school students are sitting at a table with bottles of beer before them. Gerardo and Shorty are drinking together; Gerardo is smoking a joint; he’s frowning, deep in conversation. But even so, he can’t help but say:

“The TV doesn’t belong to you. These kids probably wanted to watch a movie.”

The students make no response. Their eyes are red; I guess Gerardo has passed a few joints around. The noise of the hairdryer has isolated me from the nightlife of the hostel; it’s not so different from the dives Gerardo and I frequent: a strange place where you can learn something or have a unique—usually synonymous with sordid—experience. A place that fits our tendency to take everything to the limit. But I need a few beers to wind down and settle, with no sense of guilt, into our usual routine—just for this one last night, and then it’s over. I ask Shorty for a Mahou; he points to the fridge. I can’t find the bottle opener, but say nothing; I rummage around on the counter, which is piled with glasses, cups, and teaspoons. Gerardo hands me the opener.

“Thanks,” I say.