They spent the afternoon tracing the river’s path. Enzo sketched its curves, named its bends (“Curva do Sapo” for a toad they saw, “Braço da Amizade” for the spot where they sat to rest), and marked it on his master map. By sunset, he had done what no satellite or smartphone could: he had restored a place to the world.
Julia gasped. “It’s real.”
“Crickets?” Julia guessed.
She looked at the drawing — the careful lines, the tiny illustrations of birds and trees, the hand-lettered title: “Mapa do Meu Mundo, com Amigos.”
