God, Johan was so young. Sometimes, Roberto forgot. There were moments when he looked at the boy's clock-hand-thin frame and saw nothing but the absence of time, or the long-awaited end of it. A force of nature he had no choice but choose to obey. Then came other moments, like that one right there, Johan finally turning to face him—a pale boy only half his age. Less than that. And not looking much like a boy either, with that softly falling hair of his and the mock-modest skirt.














