“Can I see the notebook?”

He says I can’t, then agrees to let me leaf through it, though he imposes strict constraints.

•

I tell Marcela we should go. She says, “Not me.”

“Why?” Why is she jumping ship now? Her gesture says it’s not worth it.

It’s true, this thing, the case of the two boys isn’t the main question, and on the main question I’ve made no progress.

It’s true, I say to myself, this thing—the series—isn’t worth the trouble. I can get out of it, though I foresee some trouble retaining my job if I do.

The phone. It’s Julia. She says, “It’s horrible.”

“I don’t want to know about anything horrible,” I say and hang up.

Marcela overhears and shoots me a curious look. She’s smoking, with her legs crossed. She’s not thirty. She’s much younger.

The phone again. I ignore it. It rings and rings. Marcela picks up. She covers the receiver with one hand and says, “It’s for you . . . a woman.”

Something in my brain is shooting out sparks. I bury my head, defeated. But manage not to moan.

I can hear Marcela explaining. “I don’t know where he went . . . or if he’s coming back.”

The boss shows up. He tries to revive me. “What gives?” He guesses, “You two are quarreling?” Marcela shakes her head. In such cases, the woman’s testimony is enough. The boss completely forgets that we have our own private lives.

“There was a case yesterday, two students. You let it get away.”

“No, we didn’t,” Marcela steps in on my behalf. “We’ve got it. We were there.”

“Where’s the material, then? I haven’t seen anything.”

“We’re cooking something up,” says Marcela. “For the series.”

“Oh . . . but it was news. The other papers had it.”

“It’s our understanding that the news is always Aceituno’s job.”

“He came down with something and didn’t come in.”

I speak up. “You’ll have the full story by evening. A scoop.”

“This evening will be too late,” he protests, but leaves without saying he won’t accept the story, meaning that he’s tempted by the scoop.

“Now I have to see the notebook,” I tell Marcela.

“Five o’clock,” I add. That’s when she needs to have the photos ready for me. Understood. I sense that the interest she felt a few moments ago has vanished. I consult her. “Shall I break up with her?” “It’s not worth it.” “What’s not worth it?” “Judging whether something’s bad or good. Nothing is bad, if it’s necessary.” Saying this is her way of forgiving me, I think.

•

It’s a notebook with soft covers. I read the first part.

“We were in chemistry class and the teacher was writing out the lesson on the board but I told myself I was somewhere else and didn’t copy down the formulas.

“I tore out a page and wrote, ‘I am going to kill myself.’