I'm alone in the apartment. It's not my home, but the walls and the windows don’t care. And no one else is here to see me. I can do what I want, yet I restrain myself. Sitting at Señor Ortega's desk, touching his things, I feel ambivalent. Even without the intention of prying, my eyes roam across his papers and correspondences. I can't help but take in the words. My mind captures their meaning before I'm conscious of it. And then I read with intent. Not from malice, but out of interest. I'm interested in you, Gabriel Ortega. That should be a good thing, right? I want to learn about you. Your thoughts, your life. I want to know how you became who you are. How can that be bad?