Pamela was running like a madwoman down the main street of Happiness Slum. It was ironic; the name of the favela rarely matched the reality of its residents.
She was breathless, her hair a bird’s nest, and her clothes rumpled. There was a jagged tear in the gray blouse she was wearing: the same blouse that had caught Fabrício’s eye just hours ago. She had gone to a cafeteria with him, glowing with ambition. Now, she was sprinting in a blur of pure desperation.
Where was the red Gol? Where was Fabrício? And why was she running as if she were trying to outpace an avalanche?
A few attentive neighbors watched her pass, making silent conjectures. But no one moved to stop her, and no one dared to ask what had ignited such raw terror in her eyes.
When Pamela turned onto her street, she tried
