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“Juan Díaz,” I said, a seed of hope rising in my chest, “is Antonio coming, too?” I remembered that he and Antonio were friends. Although it had been almost three years since I’d seen Antonio, I loved him still.

“No, no,” the small man shook his glue-slicked head. “Antonio come to Lima? No es posible. Not if his big-bellied wife has anything to say about it.”

“He’s married now?” my father said, smiling. “Well, well. I guess he’ll never leave Cartavio now.”

“One child in his woman and one on his hip. He’s not going anywhere soon,” Díaz said, gloating.

“I’ll leave you with the children, Juan,” my father said. “I’m going inside to finish up some work. Stay, why don’t you, for some almuerzo.” He waved and went into the house.

George and Juan Díaz threw the baseball after that and spun around on the bicycle. I stood at the edge of the lot, trying to imagine Antonio with a wife and children, feeling the jealousy in my nine-year-old heart. George was at play with his own special friend; they had forgotten about me entirely. I drifted back to the house, dreaming idly, considering whether, if I couldn’t have Antonio, Cousin Nub would consent to marry me someday. They both seemed so far away now.

At five o’clock, after a late-afternoon lunch, after Nora had served Juan Díaz a heaping plateful of arroz con pollo in the kitchen and the household had retired for a brief siesta, I wandered into the garage, where my father kept his electric train set. We were not allowed to touch the trains when he wasn’t there, but we could turn on the light and look to our heart’s content. I loved to study the idyll laid out on that table: green topiaries, arched bridges, tunneled hills. There was a red brick station with a platform, a glass pond, two plastic swans, a spired church, a green schoolhouse with a porch. Nothing in it looked Peruvian. Perhaps it was Swiss, buffed to a sleek perfection. There were no people to give us a clue. The town had the look of large-scale abandonment, as if all its souls had departed on an imperative so unequivocal, so swift, that it had not even begun to factor the absence. The doors to the church and the school were unlocked, and they swung open on hinges to admit any passerby, any thief. The chairs at the railroad station waited for travelers to nestle back into them, check their watches, worry their paper schedules. The park bench by the pond awaited the return of an old man who had sat there minutes ago before snatching up his newspaper and strolling out of view.

“Marisi.”

I jumped back. The lightbulb that hung over the table did a poor job of illuminating the dank corners of the garage. I squinted to see who was there. Trunks and suitcases were stacked in one corner, rusted machinery in another, cardboard boxes lined the walls.

“Psst. Over here.” It was a man’s voice, calling at me from a shadow on the far side of the kitchen door. I leaned in and saw him.

“Juan Díaz,” I said with relief. “You scared me. What are you doing there?”

“Can you see me?” Me ves?

“Yes. But where—”

“Why don’t you come here, get a closer look?”

I walked along the table, skimming one hand along its smooth green edge. I could see his face and his shoulders. There was a dull glow in the back of his eyes. He did not blink.

“You saw me give your brother a ride on my bicycle?”

“Yes.”

“I never got a chance to give you one, Marisi. You saw how Georgie laughed? You saw what a good time he had?” He looked stiff, unnatural, and there was an odd timbre to his voice. It was high. Higher than I remembered it, and buttery.

“Yes.”

“Well, come here, bebita. I have something for you. Antonio told me you’d like it.”

“Antonio did?” I came closer.

“Yes, niñita, Antonio. He told me about you. About how wise you are for your years. How old are you now, nine? Ten? Qué inteligente. Qué graciosa. Qué bonita. Ven acá, muñeca.” Come here, dollface.

I saw what he had for me when I turned the corner and faced him. He was holding his man thing, moving it lazily in the palm of his hand.