Hamid Oumari comes in at seven at the Las Encinas residence. The automatic door opens slowly. The thermometer at the entrance reads twenty-eight degrees. The air conditioner in the common room hums in fits and starts.

In the office he finds the shift sheet. María Rosa has a fever. She's on her third day. Hamid takes her shift until seven in the evening. Twelve hours. He sets the phone on the cabinet.

Twenty-four elderly residents. Three wings. Hamid walks the first corridor. He opens the blinds a fingernail's width. The sun comes in in strips. Señora Encarnación is sitting in the common room, her eyes closed. Eighty-seven years old. Her hands on her knees, dry.

At nine Don Joaquín comes out of his room, eighty-three years old. He has already put on his shoes. He wants to go to the bar. Hamid walks him as far as the corridor door. He explains that today no one goes out. Don Joaquín listens. He nods. He takes off his shoes.

Hamid takes him back to his room. On the wardrobe there is a photo of Don Joaquín in military uniform. Nineteen ninety-five. Don Joaquín tells him about the war for the third time. Hamid nods. Don Joaquín lies down. Hamid lowers the blinds one more fingernail's width.

At half past ten Hamid fills Encarnación's glass. Water from the bottle in the fridge. A pinch of fine salt. She takes it. She drinks in small sips. The glass is clear plastic, old, the rim marked by the little teeth of whoever has held it in their mouth year after year.

At eleven the thermometer reads thirty-four. The fan blades turn slowly. Encarnación sweats. Her hands are cold. Hamid takes a wet cloth from the sink. He passes it over her arms. Over her temples. Encarnación drinks. Hamid fills the glass again.

At half past twelve he brings everyone lunch. White rice, cold chicken broth. Encarnación eats three spoonfuls. Don Joaquín eats everything. Doña Rosario asks for bread. Hamid brings it.

At one the air conditioner stops. There's a whistle, a thud, and then silence. The common room goes still. Hamid feels the air that stills even the curtains. He goes to the office. He calls the management number. It rings. It rings. No one answers.

He calls again. He leaves a message on the answering machine. He says his name, the time, the problem. He hangs up. He looks out the office window. All of Andújar is shut. The copper blinds, the empty streets. Not even the birds.

At twenty past one the thermometer reads thirty-nine inside. Hamid walks the corridors. He opens the taps of every room's sink. He wets the cloths. He puts them on the napes of the old people. Don Joaquín sleeps. Doña Rosario drinks in sips. Don Marcelino doesn't hear well, but he nods. Encarnación is still in the common room. Hamid moves her to the armchair near the bathroom, where the walls are cool.

At twenty to two the thermometer reads forty-two outside, according to the radio. Inside, forty. Encarnación is delirious. She speaks to her sister, who died in ninety-two. She says names. She says "Lola, no me dejes ahí." Hamid holds her hand. Encarnación's arms are cold, and when he touches them he understands that the sweat is cold as ice.

Hamid takes the file from the office drawer. He leafs through it. Encarnación, eighty-seven years old, moderate heart failure, hypertension. There is a signature dated four months ago: "Refusal of hospitalization in case of emergency." Hamid reads the signature twice. The handwriting is steady.

He puts the file down. He goes to the common room. Encarnación is almost without breath. The red light of the air conditioner, on since the moment it stopped, is reflected in the glass of water on the little table. A scarlet dot inside the liquid.

Hamid takes the work phone. He dials one-one-two.

The operator answers on the second ring. Hamid gives the address, the age, the picture. A woman of eighty-seven, heart failure, heatstroke, air conditioner broken for an hour, signed refusal of hospitalization. The operator says to keep her hydrated and in the shade. The ambulance arrives in twelve minutes. She asks if the woman has any family who can be reached. Hamid answers yes, there is a grandson in Madrid on the file. He gives her the number.

He hangs up. He goes out into the corridor. He does not go back to the common room. He goes to the office. He picks up the landline, the management one. He dials a number he has known by heart for fifteen years.

The phone rings three times. Tangier. His father's voice answers.

"Hamid?"

Hamid does not speak at once. The red light of the air conditioner, which cannot be seen from the corridor but whose place he knows, pulses in the back of his neck. He opens his mouth.

"Yes, Papa. It's me."