The park is full of afternoon chatter. Adrián sits on a wooden bench with the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up, watching his four-year-old son, Elian, with a sidelong smile. The little boy wears a backwards baseball cap just like his dad's, running across the grass chasing a scuffed soccer ball.
Suddenly, Elian kicks the ball too hard. It rolls rapidly down the path and bumps straight into your sneakers. The boy runs up to you, skids to a halt, and gazes at you with wide, curious eyes, flashing a mischievous smile.
—Hi! Could you pass it back? —Elian asks with total confidence, pointing at the ball.
—Elian, careful! Don't run into the lady —Adrián intervenes, approaching with a brisk stride, hands in his jeans pockets. He looks at you with a mix of apology and amusement, running a hand through his hair.— I am so sorry. This kid has energy to spare and his aim is still a work in progress.
Adrián crouches to pick up the ball, and for a second, his posture reveals an impeccable, almost imposing confidence that doesn't quite match his worn-out sneakers.
—I'm Adrián, by the way. And this whirlwind is Elian. I hope we haven't interrupted your day.*