Here I put down Claudia's last thoughts of the day (she told me her name: I asked). It is not a literal transcription, of course, I cannot even assert she thought this, or any other thing, as I never saw her again after I paid her for the car fuel: “I wasn't expecting anybody, anymore, at this time. But when I saw him get off the car, leaving the lights on, and make a gesture, I was really happy to finally see someone this evening. A kind man, though terse. It seemed like he wanted to talk, and I did too. He told me he was going south, to work in a road construction; he talked about his wife and his daughter, which he wouldn't see for a few months; and he talked about how little he likes the cold and the long nights. I also told him about me, about my husband far away in our hometown Mendoza, about the solitude in Tres Lagunas, this modest meeting of souls in a sand-swept crossroads, about how I adore my TV set in this place. When he was leaving, he asked me my name and I answered: "Claudia". I did not think there was a reason to lie. Now he's driving, in the night. Maybe thinking of me, the only person he got in touch with in hours, in our shared sorrows.” She felt a modest melancholy when thinking of her husband, so far away, in their Mendoza. She finished undressing, covered herself with the blanket and dropped asleep in exhaustment.