Six weeks later, Lucas sat on the same terrace in Lima that he had left a few weeks ago. The sun was exactly where it had been. But everything else was different.
“How are you?” asked Isabella, sitting down next to him. She held a coffee cup in her hand.
“Good,” said Lucas. “Actually. It is... quiet.”
“Silence is good,” said Don Pedro from the neighboring chair. “Finally real silence. Not stolen.”
“I understood,” said Lucas smiling. “After six weeks.”
“Six weeks,” confirmed Don Pedro. “AND YOU ARE STILL NOT INFECTED.”
“WHAT?”
“EFFICIENT,” said the cellphone on the table.
“PLEASE NO!”
Everyone laughed. Even the opossum hanging from the railing. Even Chico, who sat on the back of the jaguar. Even Tito, who was pecking banana pieces on the table.
“So,” said Isabella. “What about R?”
“R is gone,” said Lucas. “No trace. No message. Nothing.”
“He stopped,” said Don Pedro. “And that is enough.”
“Enough?” repeated Lucas. “He built FIVE TOWERS. HE COLLECTED ALL EMOTIONS.”
“AND HE STOPPED,” said Don Pedro. “BECAUSE HE UNDERSTOOD.”
“Understanding is not enough,” said Isabella quietly.
“THEN WHAT?” asked Don Pedro.
Isabella was silent for a while. Then she said: “Maybe... we have to find him.”
“FIND?” repeated Lucas. “WHY?”
“BECAUSE HE NEEDS HELP,” she said. “HE LOST HIS BROTHER. THAT CAN’T BE UNDONE.”
“THEN LET’S NOT,” said Don Pedro. “EVERYONE HELPS THEMSELVES. IF THEY WANT.”
“THAT IS—” Lucas thought. “THAT IS TRUE.”
The cellphone vibrated. “MESSAGE FROM DR. CAMILA.”
“WHAT DOES SHE SAY?” asked Isabella curiously.
“SHE SAYS: THE PATAWEB HAS 258 MEMBERS. ALL FREE. ALL RETURNED. AND ALL...”
“AND ALL?” urged Lucas.
“FREE,” repeated the cellphone.
“FREE?” said Don Pedro. “THAT IS GOOD.”
“THAT IS TOO GOOD,” said Lucas skeptically.
“NO,” said the opossum suddenly. “THAT IS ENOUGH.”
“THANK YOU, OPOSSUM,” said Isabella sarcastically.
“YOU’RE WELCOME,” said the opossum seriously.
Lucas leaned back and looked at the city. Lima was loud. Not from machines. But from people. Children played. Vendors shouted. Birds sang. Everything normal. Everything free.
“What about the other cities?” he asked.
“Buenos Aires? Normal,” said Chico. “LIMA? NORMAL. BOGOTÁ? NORMAL. MÉXICO? NORMAL.”
“NORMAL?” repeated Lucas. “THAT SOUNDS BORING.”
“NORMAL IS GOOD,” said Don Pedro. “NORMAL IS FREEDOM.”
“THAT—” Lucas paused. “THAT IS TRUE.”
“SWITCH TECHNIQUE?” asked the cellphone hopelessly.
“NO,” said Don Pedro. “TRUTH.”
“FINALLY!”
Suddenly a gust of wind came over the terrace. It smelled of sea. Of jungle. Of freedom.
“Did you feel that?” asked Isabella.
“Yes,” said Don Pedro. “THE WIND IS FREE.”
“HOW CAN THE WIND BE FREE?” asked Lucas.
“BECAUSE IT FOLLOWS NOTHING,” said Don Pedro. “IT GOES WHERE IT WANTS.”
“THAT—” Lucas smiled. “THAT WE CAN DO.”
“YES,” said Don Pedro. “WE CAN.”
“WHERE TO?” asked Isabella.
“WE DON’T KNOW,” said Lucas. “AND THAT IS GOOD.”
“DON’T KNOW?” repeated Chico. “THAT IS—” He paused. “THAT IS ADVENTURE.”
“ADVENTURE?” said Tito. “I LIKE ADVENTURE.”
“ME TOO,” said the opossum. “BUT FIRST BREAKFAST.”
“BREAKFAST?” asked Isabella. “IT’S ALREADY 4 PM.”
“BREAKFAST IS ALWAYS GOOD,” said the opossum. “SWITCH TECHNIQUE.”
“PLEASE NO!”
“IT IS TRUE,” said Don Pedro. “AND IT IS EFFICIENT.”
“I HATE—”
“WE KNOW,” said everyone at once.
---
In the evening, as the sun set over the Pacific, Don Pedro stood on the beach. Alone. With his sombrero. And looked at the water.
“What are you thinking?” asked Lucas, who stood behind him.
“I think,” said Don Pedro, “that we are done.”
“Done?” repeated Lucas. “With everything?”
“With the fight,” said Don Pedro. “Now we come to life.”
“That is—” Lucas swallowed. “That is beautiful.”
“Not beautiful,” said Don Pedro. “True.”
“And if he comes back?” asked Lucas quietly. “If R comes back?”
Don Pedro turned around. His eyes were serious. But not afraid.
“Then we fight,” he said. “But not as enemies. As friends.”
“Friends?” asked Lucas confused.
“R was never an enemy,” said Don Pedro. “He was just lost. And now we know how to help.”
“Without fighting?”
“Yes,” said Don Pedro. “By listening.”
Silence. Not eerie silence. But warm silence. Like at the end of a good day.
“You have changed,” said Lucas suddenly.
“Me?” asked Don Pedro. “HOW?”
“Before you always said: Efficient. Switch technique. But now...” Lucas paused. “Now you say: True. Friendship. Listening.”
“I have learned,” said Don Pedro simply.
“Learned?”
“From you,” said Don Pedro. “From Isabella. From Chico. From everyone.”
“Me?” repeated Lucas surprised.
“Yes,” said Don Pedro. “SWITCH TECHNIQUE.”
“NO!”
“Yes,” said Don Pedro. “SWITCH TECHNIQUE.”
“I HATE YOU!”
“I know,” said Don Pedro smiling. “But you are my friend.”
“And I you,” said Lucas. Without hate. Only with warmth.
The waves gently hit the shore. In the distance, voices could be heard. Laughter. Music.
“What do we do tomorrow?” asked Isabella, who joined them.
“Nothing,” said Don Pedro. “Or everything.”
“What does that mean?” asked Lucas.
“It means: We choose,” said Don Pedro. “Without plan. Without pressure. Without fear.”
“That sounds...” Lucas thought. “That sounds good.”
“Yes,” said Don Pedro. “THAT IS FREEDOM.”
And somewhere, far away from here, in a dark room without light, sat a man in a white suit. He looked at a screen that was black. And for the first time in many years...
He smiled.
“I give up,” he said quietly. “And that is okay.”
The voice in the room did not answer. Because no one was there.
“Switch technique,” whispered R. And smiled. Once more. Then wiped the screen. Turned off. And left.
---
The next morning Lucas woke up on a terrace in São Paulo. Not in Lima. Not in Bogotá. Not in Mexico City.
In São Paulo. At home.
“Where are we?” he asked confused.
“Home,” said Isabella from the kitchen window. “We have been here for three days.”
“Three days?!”
“Yes,” said Don Pedro from the garden. “YOU HAVE SLEPT.”
“HOW MUCH?”
“A LOT,” said the jaguar. “AND IT WAS GOOD.”
“SWITCH TECHNIQUE?”
“NO,” said Don Pedro. “SLEEP.”
“FINALLY!”
The capybara came in and brought a banana. “BREAKFAST.”
“I ALREADY FROGGED!” shouted the opossum from the windowsill.
“THAT DOESN’T MATTER,” said the capybara. “BANANA IS ALWAYS GOOD.”
“SWITCH TECHNIQUE?”
“NO,” said all five at once.
“FINALLY AGREEMENT!”
---
That same evening they all sat on the rooftop terrace of their apartment in São Paulo. The city lay beneath them. Bright. Loud. Alive.
“What comes next?” asked Tito.
“We don’t know,” said Lucas.
“That is good,” said Don Pedro.
“Why good?” asked Chico.
“Because it means: We choose,” said Don Pedro. “Without plan. Without fear. Without control.”
“And if we choose wrong?” asked Isabella.
“Then we learn,” said Don Pedro. “SWITCH TECHNIQUE.”
“PLEASE NO!”
“It is true,” said Don Pedro and smiled. “AND THAT IS TRUE.”
And in the distance, above the city, stars passed by. Not from machines. But from nature. Free. Uncontrolled.
“That was our journey,” said Lucas quietly.
“A journey,” corrected Don Pedro. “Not the only one. But the most important.”
“Most important?” repeated Isabella.
“Yes,” said Don Pedro. “SWITCH TECHNIQUE.”
“NO!”
“Yes,” said Don Pedro. “SWITCH TECHNI—” He paused. And smiled. “No. True.”
“THAT IS—” Lucas sighed. Then he smiled too. “Then it is true.”
And they all sat there. Human and animal. Friend and friend. In the silence that was not taken. But chosen.
The end of the journey.
The beginning of life.
SWITCH TECHNIQUE?
NO.
FREEDOM.
AND THEN?
THEN LIFE.