He opened his eyes, or they were already open and beginning to see again, he wasn’t completely sure which. The world returned to normal: Micaela sitting a foot or so away on the matting; Marcelo, Jimmie, and Velásquez in their Acapulco chairs. They all looked to be asleep, their eyes closed and muscles relaxed. Velásquez was even snoring.
Rodrigo once more thought, for an instant, that the hypnotism didn’t exist, and Micaela had slipped some strange drug into her urine to sedate them. But he had no time for explanations: he was awake and back in his five senses—fallible though they might be, according to the French philosopher—and after what he had witnessed, what he had done, what he had intuited during that dream, or whatever it might have been, he was in no mood for details. He slowly stretched, loosening the muscles of his legs, and moved toward Micaela. He woke her by touching her shoulder. The girl was, undoubtedly, sleeping less deeply than the other three. Rodrigo wondered what he had looked like from the outside while he was sleeping.
Micaela woke with little effort and smiled on seeing Rodrigo so close. She didn’t appear to be nervous, but rather relieved by the solitude she was unexpectedly sharing with him. Rodrigo indicated, with a gentle squeeze of her arm and a meaningful look, that they should leave. And that is what they did. They stood up, careful not to make any noise, held hands, and walked toward the door of the studio.
Outside, the sun shone down on all things, leaving no shadow.