The campground was out on the point where the lake bends, and there were six pitches and a washroom with a shower that only worked when the generator was running, and we turned the generator on at seven in the evening and off at eleven, and the diesel drum sat behind the office shed under a green tarp because the sun heated it and heated diesel stinks, and that summer the diesel in the drum came to a little above halfway, and my uncle said it was enough, and I knew it wasn't enough because my uncle made winter start in July and here it starts in May and ends when it decides to.

And the ruling had come on the Thursday.

It didn't come the way things come in films, nobody turned up with a piece of paper, my cousin read it on her phone while we were at the school for the fiesta, and all she said was "they threw it out," and then she turned the screen toward us and the screen was too bright and you couldn't read anything, and nobody took it out of her hand, and we stood there and the music kept going.

And the next day the bailiff started coming in the mornings, and he didn't come in, he stood out on the road and took photographs of the entrance, and then he got back in the car and left, and this went on for six days.

On the seventh day the car came with the Buenos Aires plates, four people, father mother and two boys, and they had booked in June and paid in June, a whole week, and they were the only ones that week because the others had all cancelled after it was in the papers.

And the woman got out and told me she needed the receipt.

And I said I would write her one, and she said that without the receipt the travel insurance wouldn't refund them anything and that the money had already been taken off them, and she said it to me in a kind way that was worse than a rude one, and meanwhile the boys had got out and were looking at the lake and one of them had already taken his shoes off.

And my uncle went and stood at the barrier.

He didn't raise it and he didn't lower it, he stood beside it with his hands on top of it, and he said, "Aymará, that is a signature."

And I said, "That is the diesel."

And he said, "Diesel you can find. The campground you can't."

And I took the receipt book out of the drawer and opened it on the hood of the car, and thirty metres away, out on the road, the bailiff had already got his phone out.

And I took the pen and wrote the date, and the date was that day's date, not June's when they had booked, and I knew this while I was writing it because in March the lawyer had explained it to us at the table in the community house with the coffee in front of him, and he had said that any paper with a date after the ruling counts as proof that the occupation is continuing, and he had said it just like that, paper, not document, paper, and I remember I was looking at his cup, which had stayed full, and I wrote the date anyway and wrote the number of nights and wrote the amount and signed underneath with my initials, which are an A and a C joined together, and the carbon paper between the top sheet and the stub had shifted by a centimetre.

And so the initials on the stub came out crooked.

And then I tore along the perforation.

It tears in two goes, the book: first the part near the spine gives and then the rest goes, and in between there is a moment when the receipt is still attached by two centimetres and you can still put it back.

And I pulled and took it off and handed it to the woman through the window, and the woman said thank you and put it in the document wallet with the plane tickets.

And my uncle didn't say anything, and that isn't what hurts, what hurts is that he didn't leave, he stayed at the barrier another half hour with his hands on the barrier watching the car come in, and then he went off toward the town and in the evening he talked to three people and to none of the three did he say my name, he said "one of us," which is worse.

And the stub stayed inside the book with the date and with the crooked initials, and I closed the book and put it in the office drawer under the key logbook, and I didn't hide it because hiding a thing means somebody is looking for it, and nobody was looking for it, they will look for it.

And the car came in onto pitch three, and the man got out and opened the tailgate, and the tent came out of its bag, and the boys pulled the guy lines on one side and he pulled on the other, and at a quarter to eight I started the generator and the generator made the noise it always makes, the one where it doesn't catch first time, and the washroom lights came on.

And the bailiff out on the road took the photographs of the entrance the way he did every morning, and that evening he took them of pitch three as well, and in the photograph of pitch three there is the tent and there is the car and there is the washroom light on behind, and I am not in it.