Going up from the gas station the tire-mechanic´s house could be guessed, or so it seemed to me, but there was no sign. I stood at the entrance and hit softly with my knuckles, not wanting to scare or be threatening in the clear cold polar night. There was no answer and I waited a while, I think a couple of minutes. I grew impatient: I was hurried; I needed that the broken tire was repaired soon to avoid having to spend a terribly uncomfortable night in the car. I knocked again, this time with (restrained) impatience and some strength. Nothing. I turned the handle, gingerly, feeling somehow an intruder and fearing being caught and reprimanded by the mechanic, which could perhaps then refuse to render service. The door opened with a slight click and a thin stream of light reached me from the inside through a small slot. Nothing. I opened more: still silence. I did not dare to speak, but firmly push the door. An empty room, absolutely empty; at the back, behind the hinge of a door the mechanic´s daughter looked at me, she did not seem disturbed, but indifferent and alien. What could I think about such a small house with an empty room? I felt how ridiculous was my anguish. The mechanic, slept, I guess.