We arrive at Veracruz de los Aros and then it happens again. The sky clouds over. All at once. First I thought it was a fluke. No. No way. I’ve done loads of tests. And it works. If I concentrate really hard, the weather changes. I don’t know who has the power. Pedro or me. But it’s true. Maybe that’s why they gave the truck that name. Wasn’t he the saint who carried round the keys of heaven? I was worried that Dad might laugh at me and all that. I know him so well. I’m glad he takes me much more seriously now. That’s the good thing about being ten and sharing a truck. So I told him about my discovery. Dad tested it too. And he saw it was true.

It depends on my mood. If everything’s okay, it’s sunny. If I get bored, it clouds over a bit. When I’m restless, it gets windy. If I get angry and cry, it rains. The other day, for instance, Dad was furious because I stuck my arms out of the window. It scares me when Dad bawls at me like that. And that night there was lightning. Of course, you have to be patient. The sky won’t change as soon as I think of it. It’s like Dad says: You have to drive a long way to travel a short distance. But if I keep it up, eventually it happens. Like mealtimes.

I send a text from Dad’s phone:

Mum replies:

Mum doesn’t know how to use the phone, I laugh. What do you mean? Dad says, she uses it every day. And she had one before you were born, grumpy arthropod. Sure, I say, but she doesn’t know. Her messages always have twenty or thirty letters too many. It’s more expensive. And she wastes about a hundred letters. There are some things you don’t skimp on, Dad says. And you, I go on, don’t know how to use it either. Oh, heck, pardon me, he says, why? Let’s see, I say, where in the menu do you find the games? That’s unfair, he complains. Ask me about something I might have a use for. Okay, okay, I say. How do you copy your contacts list? He doesn’t say anything. You see? I say. Then I raise my arms and whoop like I’d just scored a goal. Arthropod! says Dad.

We stop at another service station. Dad keeps wanting me to take a leak. Like I was an eight- or nine-year-old. He says it’s not good to hold it in. That it’s best to go right at the start. And, because we drink so much Coke, in the end I always go a bit. We climb out. The sun blinds me. Dad is wearing shades. He points to some metal doors. I crinkle my nose to try to see them. Last one to the toilet cleans Pedro’s windows, I shout. Dad smiles and shakes his head. You’re afraid I’ll win, right? I try saying. I’m afraid the effort will make you wet yourself before you get there, he replies. Liar! Liar! I accuse him. Pants on fire! he teases. Don’t be a spoilsport, I complain. Don’t you be so competitive, he says. I stop walking. I lift my head. I put my hand over my eyebrows and say: Please, please, please. Dad stands still. He sighs. He looks ahead of him. He grips his belt. He sighs again. You count, he whispers. One, two! I shout. After that all I hear is the sound made by the soles of my trainers.

I reach the door to the toilet. Me. First. For a moment I think Dad may have let me win. That always annoys me. This time it’s different. Because he actually ran and he’s all shaken up. It’s true Dad had that virus last year. And he still isn’t the same as before. He says he is. I know he isn’t. But his belly isn’t so big. So he should be quicker than when he was fat. I don’t know. I beat him anyway. This summer is so cool. As soon as school starts I’m going to take on that jerk Martin Alonso, who always beats me at races. I leave the toilet. Dad doesn’t. It takes him quite a long time these days. But when I take just a bit long, he grumbles. Although. I’m not surprised considering what comes out. Dad shits a lot and it’s hard. I’ve seen it. Finally he appears. His face and T-shirt are soaked. Good idea. Me too.

We cross Sierra Juárez. Dad can’t find the radio station he likes. So he lets me choose the music. I’m happy and it’s getting warmer. Further proof of Pedro’s power. I’ve thought a lot about it and I’ve realized that it’s him. Or rather, it’s the two of us. For it to work the truck has to be moving and I have to be on board. Dad looks at the map the whole time. Are you okay? he asks. Great, I reply. We should be in Fuentevaca by now, he says. Pedro’s tired so he’s going more slowly, I laugh. Papa doesn’t find it funny. His jokes are worse. I switch on the phone to play for a bit. I choose mini-golf. I still don’t understand the rules. But I keep scoring more and more points. Lito, Dad says, I think we’d better spend the night at a motel, right? I think there’s one near here. We need to take a shower. And to get a good night’s sleep. Because tomorrow (the ball spins round in a weird way, it gets bigger, flies up like it’s coming out of the screen, disappears, the yardage calculator keeps going, the trees lean a bit to the right, the crosswind makes the shot more difficult, the ball appears, then grows smaller again, falls in slo-mo, bounces once, twice, three times, keeps rolling slower and slower, what would it be like to play in the hills?, is there such a thing as mountain golf?, the ball lands on the green, skips closer, the flag’s in sight, what a shot, ladies and gentlemen!, it rolls a few feet further, no, I don’t think it’s going to make it), hey, son, hey, are you listening to me or not? Yes, yes, I reply.

The motel is full of old junk. There’s a smell of fish coming from the back. The guy at reception has gaps in his teeth. He wears his shirt half open. His chest is all sunburned. He looks like a thug. Dad gives him some money. The thug hands us the key. Not a card. A proper key with a key ring and all. A round, heavy key ring. Like a golf ball. Do you have Internet? I ask. The thug’s gums go even pinker. What do you think, kid? he replies. Come along, son, come along, Dad puts an arm round me. The dining room’s at the back. Sure. At the back. Where the fish are rotting.

I make bread pellets. I roll them on the tablecloth. I flick them with my middle finger. I try to aim them between the water jug and the breadbasket. The pellets slide fast because the tablecloth is oilskin. So far I’ve scored nine goals and had six misses. Could be better. Don’t you like the soup? Dad asks. He looks sad as he says this. So I tell a lie. Dad cheers up a bit. I put another spoonful in my mouth. This soup should be used in chemical warfare. They could fire it from tubes out of light aircraft. And everyone would die. I shoot two more pellets. One goes in, one goes out. I play one more to make it the best of three. Good shot. Dad puts a white pill on the tip of his tongue. Then he smiles. I get a bit carsick on those mountain roads, he explains, too many bends. I saw him take the exact same pill yesterday. And there weren’t as many bends as today. I look at the man at the opposite table. The dining-room light is far away, so it looks as if he only has half a face. Maybe the other half is missing. Maybe he ate up all his soup and it’s disintegrated. Suddenly the man with half a face sees I’m looking at him. And he stares straight at me. But his face doesn’t move. Not even an inch.

There’s a rusty fan on the ceiling. The fan makes me a bit nervous. It goes round and round. It wobbles a lot. And it’s nearer to my side. I ask Dad if he’ll swap beds with me. Dad says no. Then he tickles me and we swap. I turn on the TV. It’s teeny. I channel surf. On one Stallone is twisting the arm of a big fat man. I’ve seen that film before. It’s awesome. On another there’s the president with a gaggle of microphones. On another the police are firing tear gas. On another there are naked women. Dad tells me to change the channel. On another there’s a football match I don’t know where. The players’ names are really weird. On another there’s a woman skater bouncing off the ice in slo-mo. He switches the light off. I don’t feel sleepy yet. I ask if I can go on watching TV for a bit. He says yes but with the sound off. I tell him it’s no fun watching TV with the sound off. He says it’s no fun with it on either. Then he gives a big yawn. And he takes a sleeping pill. I turn the TV off. Dad says: Goodnight speedy chelonian. Wasn’t I an arthropod today? I ask. That was yesterday, he replies, it’s after midnight.