The package arrived on a Tuesday, which Ines Barreto would later note was the only ordinary thing about it. No return address. No stamp. It had been left with the concierge of her building on Rua da Boavista, a man named Agostinho who read other people's mail when the envelopes were thin and spent the afternoons arguing with a radio. He handed it to her at the door and said nothing, because he never said anything, and she took it upstairs without looking at it, because she had spent the morning on the phone with a bank and her mind was still there. The bank had been polite in the way that institutions are polite when they are telling you that you are a number and the number is not good. She owed eleven thousand euros. She had owed eleven thousand euros for two years, and the number had not moved because the column paid enough to live and not enough to pay, and every month she told herself she would take the translation work, or the copywriting, or the teaching, and every month she did not, because the column was the only thing left that looked like a career and she was afraid that if she let go of it she would disappear. Her apartment was two rooms and a kitchen that had been a pantry in another century. The walls were the color of old teeth. From the window she could see the river, not the pretty part, the working part, the cranes that moved all night like slow animals. She put the package on the table and made coffee first. This was discipline. You do not open the mail hungry, you do not open it tired, you do not open it the way you open a wound