They are in the car again, heading north. The boy is in ebullient spirits, the sore hand forgotten. He jabbers to Juan, wrestles with Bolívar in the back seat. Juan joins in too, though he is wary of the dog, who has yet to warm to him.
‘Did you like Dr García?’ he, Simón, inquires.
‘He’s OK,’ says the boy. ‘He has hairs on his fingers like a werewolf.’
‘Why did you want him to come along to Estrellita?’
‘Because.’
‘You can’t just invite every stranger you meet to come with us,’ says Inés.
‘Why not?’
‘Because there is no room in the car.’
‘There is room. Bolívar can sit on my lap, can’t you, Bolívar?’ A pause. ‘What are we going to do when we get to Estrellita?’
‘It’s a long way yet to Estrellita. Be patient.’
‘But what are we going to do there?’
‘We are going to find the Relocation Centre and we are going to present ourselves at the desk, you and Inés and I, and —’
‘And Juan. You didn’t say Juan. And Bolívar.’
‘You and Inés and Juan and Bolívar and I, and we are going to say, Good morning, we are new arrivals, and we are looking for somewhere to stay.’
‘And?’
‘That’s all. Looking for somewhere to stay, to start our new life.’