When Josias reaches into his sweatpants pocket and pulls it out, he deposits the few remaining notes and pennies on the counter. The old man adds the amount, and responds with a tone of concern, not mockery, “It doesn't even give five bucks, buddy. I can't even let you stay here overnight.”

Josias takes the money back and puts it away. “I know, so I thought I could count on your mercy. As you are already aware, my father was murdered, the moneylender probably knows that my father had me as a son, and if they find me, they will either kill me or they will want to torment me so that I pay the debt. I will not be there to suffer either. My mother got divorced and disappeared from the city; she is probably in Europe with a very rich guy. I have no one here.”

“So let's do the following.” The elderly man goes to a dresser and opens a drawer. He takes something and closes it. When he turns around, Josias realizes that it is money. “I'm going to pay you a ticket to the bus station, and you'll look for a relative of yours. Surely you must have uncles or cousins.”

Josias ponders for a moment. His mother's uncles lived in Rio de Janeiro, a long way away. He would be safe. But, would it be possible they accept to shelter the son of the man who caused their sister enormous distress? It is one thing for them to receive their distant nephew at the holidays; it is another thing to live with him and support him.

Therefore, Josias reclines the option, shaking his head in the negative. “No, sir, thank you. The uncles closest to me are from Rio de Janeiro. And I don't want to go that far; after all, it's just for a while, until I have the financial means to get by.”

“And how are you going to achieve this, after all?” The man keeps the money in his pants pocket.

“Somewhere in this city, there must be something for me to do. I am only eighteen, but I have already done some tasks to have a little money. If I depended on my father for everything, I would be naked here before you.”

The building owner gives a louder laugh. He was already sympathizing with him. “What's your name, kid?”

“Josias Rocha.” He responded with dignity as if he were the CEO of some multinational.

“My name is Teodoro. Look, boy, I like your posture. If this story of yours is true, then I have to congratulate you on your courage. Another boy your age would be crying desperately without knowing what to do. But, hearing you say with all the confidence that you intend to work your way and overcome this situation, gives me confidence.”

Teodoro then crouches and then straightens up with a key in his right hand. “Here's the deal, Josias: I'm going to let you spend a night here and tomorrow we'll see what to do. You look exhausted.”

Josias grins and breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you very much, Teodoro! Thank you very much! And you can rest easy with me, I'm being sincere.”

Teodoro, a longtime resident of the favela, knows the boys who mess with illegal things. And as he talks to Josias, he realizes that Josias is not one of them. Perhaps the story of the murdered father is an invention, but at least he is sure that Josias is not running away from something wrong that he did.

Josias and Teodoro talk some more, and later, the owner of the building indicates the stairs for Josias to go up. The bedroom is on the third floor. Josias enters and closes the door, grateful, looking up, out of respect for God. And again, the phrase of Everaldo is echoing in his mind, “I will pray for you and pray that God will bring you the best for your life. You will get out of this and be successful. And I believe that you will have the willpower to overcome your adversities! Amen?”

Josias smiles, he believes that in fact, Everaldo has already prayed for him.

In the meantime, the police and a man from the local newspaper were in Josias's old house, recording the cruel murder of his father, Mr. Rocha. The police vehicle stopped at the entrance of the house caught the attention of the neighbors. Of course, they heard the shots, but at the time no one dared to go out to find out what was going on. Now, with the police present, they left with confidence.

Two policemen carry Mr. Rocha's corpse out of the house, already wrapped in a black plastic bag, and place it in the van for the legal medical institute. Another was taking pictures of the mess the killers left, looking for valuables to make up for the debt. Furniture was overturned or broken; the television that Mr. Rocha watched was shattered on the floor, in pieces.

"Does anyone here know what happened?" The officer in charge of the investigation suddenly asked the neighbors. However, they not only remained silent but withdrew from the crime scene. Nobody would dare denounce the moneylender who controls the neighborhood.