Daniel had a math test and was nervous. Roberto sat with him for a few minutes, reviewing fraction problems with the calm patience that defined his fatherhood.
At 7:30 a.m., Roberto picked up his briefcase, said goodbye to the children as they finished their cereal, and left the house. Patricia watched him walk down the street toward Montevideo Avenue, where he would catch the microbus to the subway. The sky threatened rain.
That was the last image she had of him: his back slightly hunched under the weight of his briefcase, walking among other workers heading to their jobs, disappearing into the human current of a city that never sleeps.
Roberto never arrived at work that day.
At 10:00 a.m., his boss called the house asking for him. That was completely unusual—Roberto was obsessively punctual. Patricia felt the first sharp stab of worry. She called Roberto’s cellphone, but it was turned off. That was strange. Roberto always kept his phone on in case his family needed him.
She waited, thinking maybe there had been a transportation issue, that microbuses were unpredictable, that the subway sometimes stopped between stations.
But when noon came and Roberto had still given no sign of life, worry turned into alarm.
Patricia called the company again. No, he hadn’t arrived. He hadn’t called. She called the few relatives they had in the city. No one knew anything.
At 2:00 p.m., she left the children with a neighbor and went out to look for him, retracing the route Roberto took every day. She asked at corner stores, spoke to street vendors who were always in the same spots. No one remembered seeing him that morning.
It was as if Roberto Campos had dissolved into the air.
