It’s day. The work is done. The two of them gather up the materials, pack everything away in plastic refuse sacks. They know that if they don’t deal with the tidying up while they are still warm they won’t do it. She opens the zip of the igloo tent, walks over to Paulo and then, having said hello to Passo Fundo, says that she’s going to change her clothes and will bring her mother and sisters back earlier than they had agreed so that they can meet his friend. You never know, he might even play his clarinet for them. It would be the perfect way to inaugurate the new home. Paulo likes the idea. As soon as Maína has left the encampment, Passo Fundo suggests that they finish the job by dividing up what’s left of the vodka. It’s a Thursday without a cloud in the sky, there are more cars passing than there were the previous days. Two hours earlier than planned, Passo Fundo’s cousin arrives, he’s got a crazy expression on his face, like someone who hasn’t slept. They position the stepladder the carpenters had left them on top of the Monza’s roof rack (Paulo has promised to return it to them by the end of the day). The drink relaxes them, the smell of paint takes on a thermal presence when the sun’s rays strike the wooden room, a feature that perhaps only exists in Paulo’s exhausted brain. He has already informed Passo Fundo that he is going to have to play his instrument for Maína’s sisters, so Passo Fundo is already warming up, going over the first part of the study he will perform (Paulo thinks it’s funny remembering that Passo Fundo got interested in the instrument in eighth grade when, as a punishment, he was obliged to attend ten rehearsals of the school orchestra, rehearsals taken by the school principal himself, it was either that or immediate expulsion; he thinks it’s funny and comments that he never imagined he’d ever see him warming up for a gig like this). Passo Fundo’s cousin asks Paulo if he wants a hand taking down the igloo tent, Paulo says he’s going to stay another week, and that’s when he notices that the boy is more agitated than usual. Passo Fundo’s cousin asks if they don’t want to have a bit of a kick-around, Paulo can’t stop himself saying maybe, the boy goes to the car, gets a rather worn five-a-side football, laughing to himself, scratching his nose, and with his right hand throws it at Paulo’s chest. The lack of sleep and the drink make Paulo give a start, and purely out of reflex he deflects the ball without trying to control it and then runs off after it, wondering what else he could do that would make the situation even odder. Passo Fundo puts away his clarinet, they start up a game of piggy in the middle, in which one of them tries to take the ball off the other two, then some shots at goal and knees and headers. There’s no more vodka and it’s nearly half past nine. A particularly enthusiastic kick by Passo Fundo’s cousin sends the ball spinning quickly with perfect accuracy towards the highway, and the three of them, just kids, run after it, scared it’ll get onto the road and cause some kind of accident. That is the exact moment when a highway police patrol van pulls over in front of Passo Fundo’s cousin’s Monza, and the ball lodges underneath it. Two policemen in Ray-Bans (they couldn’t be more of a cliché) get out ostentatiously, wanting to know what’s going on, where are the people who live in the tent and what’s with that painted house at the back. Passo Fundo’s cousin, not realising how much this will expose him, excuses himself and bends over to retrieve the ball. At once the stockier of the policemen draws his gun and tells him to stand up, to put his hands behind his head and step back beside the other two. The other policeman, the skinny one, also pulls his revolver, with an order that nobody move. For a moment Paulo doesn’t know what to think. He was getting ready for a verbal confrontation, but not to have two guns pointed at him at the very moment when he stopped paying attention. His almost pathological difficulty in submitting to authority, unfurling itself in the shock of that situation, is such that he cannot pull himself together in the midst of the rage that is poisoning him and, for a moment (which lasts for the duration and the immediate consequences of a slap on the face), the words that ought to be heard are shut away in a paralysis. ‘We’re not delinquents, officer,’ says Passo Fundo’s cousin. Paulo still does not react, trying to understand what’s going on. The skinny policeman ignores what Passo Fundo’s cousin has said and repeats his question about what they are doing there. Passo Fundo and Paulo look at each other. ‘Four Indian women, friends of mine, live here,’ says Paulo. ‘Friends of yours? And where are they?’ It’s only the skinny policeman who speaks. It isn’t hard to tell that his partner, holding the cocked revolver, is a hair’s breadth away from losing it. ‘In another encampment,’ Paulo says, pointing towards the south. ‘Lower that arm, kid.’ It isn’t easy being friendly. Cars begin to stop on both sides of the road: curious passers-by who have spotted something out of the ordinary going on. ‘I’m going to ask one last time: what are the three of you doing here?’ The people who stopped have begun to get out of their cars. ‘I built a house for the four of them.’ Paulo looks over behind the Indian women’s tent. ‘I can show you … ’ His expression becomes even more serious. ‘So they have better living conditions.’ The skinny one steps closer. ‘And what about the National Indian Foundation, does FUNAI know about this? Do you have a construction license?’ he asks, not lowering his gun. ‘No,’ Paulo looks straight at him, ‘it was my idea, the two of them just came over to help me … Look, I can show you my papers. I’m a student at the state university, I’m studying law … ’ he tries to point out. ‘Ok, all of you over there,’ says the skinny one, now probably playing up to his audience on the roadside. ‘Keep an eye on them, Régis.’ He goes into Maína’s tent; once he’s inspected it he moves on to the small igloo tent, takes out the backpacks, opens the refuse sacks, looks at the empty cans and the painting gear inside, only then does he go over to the wooden room. The three of them wait under the gaze of the stockier one. Someone calls out offering to phone for reinforcements if the police want them (Paulo is bewildered by the offer; it’s human nature to root for the underdog, he remembers his father always used to say that). The skinny one returns. ‘Where are the Indian women? I want to know their precise whereabouts.’ Passo Fundo drops his arms, strikes a casual pose. ‘You guys have seen we aren’t armed. The Indians are going to be back soon. Any chance you can stop pointing those guns at us?’ The stocky one takes a step back. ‘You stop right there, scum, or … ’ Passo Fundo moves forward. Paulo steps in between them; the stocky one takes aim at his legs, fires.