Free The World in Half by Cristina Henríquez

idea, but I hope it will be something significant. I already feel as though I’ve fallen behind, wasting all day yesterday like I did. It was my fault, too. Danilo was willing to go to the address until I made us detour. I cover my face with my hands and rub them briskly up and down a few times, trying to wake myself up.
    Thirty minutes later, I head downstairs dressed in the best clothes I brought with me: a white blouse with scalloped trim around the armholes and a denim skirt with a column of oversized brown buttons down the front. The outfit is paired with my Converse, of course, which isn’t going to win me any fashion awards, but at least they’re black and white, so they sort of go.
    I’m hoping to find Danilo milling around, but when I check the bar, there’s only a middle-aged couple sipping coffee at one of the tables. The man turns the pages of a newspaper while he drinks, letting the paper leaves collapse softly, like a failed soufflé. Outside, I crane my neck to scan up and down the street. Nothing. Then I see Hernán standing with his back against the building, his arms crossed, his cap drawn over his eyes. It looks a little like he’s dozing off. I walk down to street level and tap him on the arm. He startles, then brightens when he sees me.
    “Good morning,” I say.
    “ ¡Señorita! You look so nice. What can I do for you today?”
    “Have you seen Danilo?” I ask.
    “Danilo?” Hernán furrows his brow.
    “Have you seen him this morning?”
    “My Danilo?”
    I smile. “Is there another one?”
    “Why are you looking for him?”
    I’m thrown off by his accusatory tone. “I was just wondering if you had seen him.”
    “How do you know him?”
    “I don’t really know him. I met him yesterday. He offered to help me.”
    Now Hernán’s thick, dark brows fold toward each other, a long crease forming between them. “Help you how?”
    “Just . . . nothing. If you see him, could you tell him I’m in the bar, having breakfast?”
    Hernán hesitates. “Whatever you are trying to accomplish, you can do it without him.”
    When he sees I’m at a loss for words, his face softens.
    “Who should I say is at the bar?”
    “Me.”
    He smiles. “But what is your name?”
    “Sorry. Miraflores.”
    He looks surprised, but doesn’t comment on it other than to say, “Very pretty.”
    “Thank you,” I say.
    When I emerge again, after taking an hour and a half to eat two eggs and drink one cup of coffee until its bitter and very cold end, Hernán shouts cheerfully, “Time to go already? And unfortunately”—he shakes his head with mock ruefulness—“no sign of Danilo yet.”
    “It’s okay,” I tell him. I do feel disappointed not to have run into Danilo again, but I spent all of breakfast reminding myself that I can do this without him, just as I’ve been planning all along. It doesn’t matter who helps me or how it happens, but I want to find my father. I spent so long believing that he was someone who didn’t want to know me. But everything changed when I read those letters. My father cared about me. He cared about my mother. At least he did when he wrote them. But I believe that he still does. If I can find him, if he saw me . . . I’ll shock the hell out of him, I’m sure. But I really, honestly, think he’ll be happy to see me. After all this time, to know that I came for him and that I want to know him. And I could tell him that I think my mother never stopped loving him. He may not want to hear that. If he’s moved on already, it might be too much. Or he may be living every day of his life longing to hear that. And I could be the one to tell him. I could have him call her. She might tell him things she’s been holding on to for decades, things she might not even remember soon that she wants to say, thanks to the insidious disease that’s stalking its way through her brain. I could give her back that bit of her past, even though I’m not sure she deserves it since she’s the