We were alone, Maria and I, hugging each other in the bathroom. We hid there to escape the fear. On stormy days, we would hear the roaring sea, but today, it was the sound of the rusty, worn-out water tank. Finally, we heard her voice. At first, she called us frantically, then with increasing tension. We should have answered her, told her we were fine, but she anticipated us. We heard her panting and the sound of her footsteps, and she was walking briskly as if she had found her way. Maria pulled the sliding bathroom door, while she pushed the door from the other side, bringing light with her and carrying storms of fear in her eyes. Her fear was the fear of a mother who comes home and cannot find her children whom she left playing peacefully. And our fear, in turn, was primal because it was our first fear.