THE BLUE BAND

The four o'clock light fell on the yard without bringing enough shade. The ball still sat on the son's bowl, and the open portion had already lost its preservation glow, dry grains scattered around the cracked seed as if someone had tried to sow inside the house. Nael came back along the side of the bar. He carried the four seeds in his pocket and a blue band lit at his wrist, a notice of collective transport. He stopped in front of the open refrigerator, looked at the silent motor, then looked for Antônio. There's a seat on the passenger truck, he said. It leaves by the high road. Antônio did not ask where to. The capital appeared on the domestic panel as a distant point, with the son's presence dark for two hours. The band on Nael's wrist showed three seats available and a price that rose with every breath of the timer. Ilva lifted the ball off the bowl. The point of light reappeared among the grains. The other journey has come, she said. He stood up slowly. His burnt fingers gripped the edge of the workbench, let go, gripped again. The inspection still pulsed amber on the bar's visor. In-person presence pending. Antônio looked at the notice, then at the road that began beyond the porch. He touched the amber with his forefinger and let the mark of his fingerprint fade slowly. Nael turned his wrist towards him. The blue band dropped another number. The sentence hung over the hot kitchen. Outside, the leaves of the pequi that held out by the wall had turned their pale side upwards. Before, Nael used to say, that tree gave shade to three children and a ball. Now the canopy ended before the wall of ducts, and the ground beneath it had the colour of the dust that came off the trucks. Ilva opened the temporary keeping. The forty-three second message appeared whole, blocked for deletion and for sending. The terminal recognised her face. Then it looked for Antônio's confirmation. He did not bring his face close. The truck stopped on the high street. It came without a horn, carrying on its roof a navigation strip that streaked the adobe houses and the service cabinets with white light. Two women got off to swap places with people who had not gone. One of them carried a sleeping boy tied to her chest with a sling. The boy's mouth was open, dry at the edges. Nael came into the yard and picked up the ball. I'll leave this with the seed, he said. Are you going too, asked Antônio. I'm going as far as the threshold. Nael tucked the ball under his arm. The blue band dropped one seat. Then two. The truck calculated dropouts before they happened. Antônio went through the thermal curtain. Ilva followed with the folded terminal. At the door, the floor of the house met the earth of the yard in a narrow strip of cracked cement. The tracking camera above the porch followed the two of them that far, then opened a passage surface in the air. Residential exit. Return subject to inspection priority. Antônio read the condition. The bar would keep the kitchen suspended, the inspection would receive a new time and the seat on the transport would require him to hand over his bodily presence within the next forty seconds. Nael stayed outside the luminous mark. He won't come back today, said Ilva. Antônio closed his eyes for a moment. The message waited between her fingers, words he had composed when he still imagined arriving with food at his son's door. Send it, he said. The order came out low, but the surface recognised it. Ilva brought the terminal to the sending field. The confirmation asked for her face, because the keeping was hers. It asked for his face, because the voice was his. The two of them leaned into the same light. The message left. The point in the capital took four seconds to change. Then it stopped being presence and became pending receipt. Antônio breathed through his mouth. The truck dropped another seat. Ilva crossed the threshold first, not to walk him to the road, but to return to the owner of the house what she was carrying. Outside, the domestic authorisation fell from her profile. The son's bowl lost its glow on her terminal. Antônio got back the access to listen, without the power to delete. Nael handed the ball to Ilva. Keep this until he comes back, he said. The truck opened its door. Antônio got in with six seconds left. The light of passage closed behind him, leaving the dust of the yard to rise slowly over the strip of cement. Nael looked at the road, then at Ilva. If he answers before he arrives, you don't listen.