He struggles to drift off to sleep, and when his parents rouse him, he buries his face under the pillow and longs for solitude. They do not permit quiet. With grunts of exhaustion, they lift him back onto the bed and squat before him, nudging the pillow with careful, practiced ease.
What is happening? He asks, sensing that his behavior is odd and might hint at something extraordinary unfolding.
Eusebio’s mother had just called, checking if her child was still in bed or at home, if he knew anything about her whereabouts. Renata cannot say where she is, but she knows where their paths diverged—secret journeys that she has kept hidden from everyone. A surge of panic grips her, waking her in an instant. His mind races, and within moments he pieces together a plan so intricate that it feels almost automatic: he must speak up, even if it means admitting a mistake. They were not meant to go this far, not allowed in any house, and they could still argue that Eusebio had disappeared because of him, which would be painful yet unfair. The priority is to present the facts in a crisp, concise, and practical way while he remains sprawled on the bed, telling what happened, where they went, and when they parted ways.
Six conflicting emotions roll through his parents in a single breath—anger, confusion, sorrow, fear, and a brittle hope. They fear the worst and silently blame Renata while feeling pity for their daughter, who simply wants a teenage moment, a fling, and a little autonomy. The father runs his fingers through his hair with a weary tenderness, and the mother hurries to the phone to relay information—what it might mean, what it could do. Both share a quiet, unspoken belief. Brats, they think. They could have watched them more closely, been stricter, or perhaps softer, listened to their fancy and offered rides or a safe space to wander. They gave comfort and ease, assumed this was harmless, and trusted that what they wanted would be harmless. They remember their own youth differently, recall a harsher childhood, and wonder what the future should look like for their children who seem so capable of testing every boundary. Perhaps the biker bar was not just a place, perhaps a symbol of rebellion, and they wonder if they should have dragged them back to the safety of home. They are relieved that it was not Renata in that room, that the room they prepared for her stayed empty. Thoughts race: if something had happened to her, what would their response have been? What would the world have said? The weight of those reflections feels somehow heavy and distant, as if it belongs to another life, another family.
Renata, unmoved by her father’s silent support, rises without a word and steps into the corridor. Dressed in pink pajamas, she gnaws at her nails as she waits for news, picturing Eusebio’s thick black hair, the dark jacket he wore, and the long legs that seemed to carry him away. She imagines his firm stride and the lingering smoke of a cigar around his head. Meanwhile Trina learns that he has boarded a bus, perhaps fled to Madrid or Barcelona to start anew, to work as a waiter in a bar where last night’s fray would not define him, to save money for a future that might lead him to London.
He repeats the contemplation of the route he will take, the moment he will board the bus, and his head sags against the window as sleep lingers in brief bursts. He wakes with a sense of escape, a dream turned real for a few minutes, then dissolving into the longer hours of the journey. Maybe he has not yet reached his destination, perhaps Madrid or Barcelona, or perhaps somewhere else entirely where the town is out of focus and life feels like a distant, hazy vignette. The idea of a physical place fades into a kind of altered consciousness, a loop of well-meant images that circle endlessly as he waits for news while walking down a quiet corridor. The phone rings repeatedly, yet it is never Eusebio. His mother speaks with a self-satisfied calm, offering a second plane of conversation, avoiding new information about his friend’s whereabouts, and perhaps masking the ache of confusion with a practiced optimism. They comfort themselves with the notion that persistence and resilience might still matter, and they muse about plans to meet again. A future where a trusted place is found, where a backpack is ready and waiting, and where last night’s conflict can be buried beneath a shared, forgiving smile. It feels like a memory they reassemble in the moment, turning a moment of fear into a story they can bear. They recall the question they once asked and the way fear once colored their judgments, yet hope lingers that something hopeful will emerge from the fog. The imagined journeys promise more companionship, more laughter, and a chance to ease the ache of separation. The town remains a blur in the distance, like a short, almost comic scene that sits on the edge of memory, a speck of foam in the sea of what might come next. Overall, the night dissolves into a dreamlike sequence where reality and longing mingle, and the next chapter seems only a breath away, ready to begin when the phone finally rings again.