A heavyset doctor walks by. Behind him, assiduously gliding along in her rubber shoes, is a nurse who reminds me of something, though I’m not sure whether it’s a person. They disappear down a corridor.

A nun says to me, without pausing, “Buenas noches. How is she, our patient?” and apart from the confusion, since the patient in question is a he—my brother being, obviously, a man—it strikes me that I haven’t seen her here before. But I acknowledge her kindness.

A small woman is pushing a heavy cart: There are covered plates of food on the top shelf and, below, gauze, bandages, tweezers, scissors, disinfectants. Everything has been used, eaten, is going back. She moves very slowly, giving me time to observe her carefully.

The inside of the sanatorium, with its yellow lights, descends into gentle somnolence. The street, too, rests from its automobiles, their noise increasingly rare.

I ponder Mauricio. When he’s thinking, he wrinkles up his forehead, maybe because he’s making an effort to concentrate. Thinking doesn’t make me form wrinkles; I don’t believe anything is visible on the outside, in my case. In that respect, we’re different. Also with respect to sparrows: I like shooting at them, he doesn’t. He was always the one who ate all my candy, which I didn’t much care for. He’s more muscular than I am; he eats better and used to play sports. He didn’t want to die, or so I imagine, we’ve never spoken about that. If he were to die, Susana would have a hard time of it; they have four children.

Poor Mamá, if anything happens to Mauricio.

My own death, I believe, would be more bearable. She’d get used to it in the end.

The doctor doesn’t come back out, he must be examining him, or giving him a shot, or something. Susana is hypnotized by the door, poor thing—her, too. She loves Mauricio and besides that she needs him.

The doctor is taking a long time.

If my brother were to die!

In the early morning, Mauricio is panting, not lucid. Susana, sedated, has fallen asleep on the second bed; I’m on a sofa between them. I’ve had a wash and the nurse gave me a newspaper. I’m reading the articles with the largest headlines.

Through the window I see people and prefer to watch the children.

Mauricio would protect me from the adults.

In the cellar we had empty cans, oil cans. One day during siesta we banged on them with metal rods until the neighbors stuck their heads over the wall, enraged. We had a lot of fun. Though maybe Mauricio did that for me. Papá had died and Mauricio didn’t want to leave me alone, didn’t want me to be sad. He gave me his things.