It was almost seven in the evening when Ricardo rang the bell to Carol’s home. The house was painted a soft buttercup yellow, trimmed with green—moss green, Carol’s favorite color. A wide chest-high hedge, neatly trimmed, separated the lawn from the sidewalk. A bed of blooming flowers ringed both sides of the house. Ricardo had passed children jumping rope, adults washing their cars on front lawns, kids playing ball down the road, could still hear them from where he stood at the front door. The road sloped up the hill, filled with residential houses. Dogs barked, kids laughed, birds sang. Even the trees added to the symphony with rustling leaves.
It was a quiet neighborhood, a resting place, a cheerful-looking house, and nothing like the rush of São Paulo: the honking vehicles, the busy p
