A garden filled with grass and trees, everything was green; there were picnic tables made of wood and benches. I was sitting at a table; there were many girls of my age and I knew only one of them. We were talking about a novel by Caridad Bravo Adams. The novel came to my memory -- long dresses, a triangle of three young girls. One of them bothered the others; she treated them badly and she didn't own anything. A friend told me that those characters really lived in a farm in Quito and that is why the novel was still unfinished and that she corresponded with one of the girls, the kindest one. I told her that I also wanted to write and asked her to lend me the second book. She offered it to me and took an envelope and wrote the address. We started to go up some stairs that led to a seashore drive. I was going up when the envelope with the address was blown by the wind and fell into a garden where some boys were playing ball. The paper had become a ball and they didn't give it to me, but instead threw it to each other. I couldn't run. Suddenly I was lame, I was desperate and felt powerless. Somebody told them to give it to me because I was lame and they were carrying me up the stairs.