📸 Photo

Kevin’s father and mother cry, and I cry with them. I look for the blame in their eyes, but they only ask me to tell them everything about the way it happened. I tell them how we set out on the trip, how close Kevin and I became, like brothers. I tell them how Kevin had told me all about his family and repeat the Santa Claus story for them and all his other stories about hunting and fishing in the forests of Oregon.

After an emotional farewell I feel better. They don’t blame me. I get back on the Greyhound for the trip back to Miami. Once again I order gargantuan amounts of food at every stop.

I had this daydream hour after hour, lingering over every detail of the food I consumed until I was drooling with hunger and my stomach was howling. I drank another cup of the soup water and determined to stop torturing myself.

I still had some time before evening and planned my trek the next day to Curiplaya. Above me I could see the distant mountains, their crests forming a continuous, jagged line. I could climb to the crest, I thought, where the foliage must be sparse. I would only have to keep going straight and to make sure that the river was always on my left. I would be able to make faster progress.

I put my shoes on and hesitantly began to practice walking, mostly on the heels and sides of my feet, for the soles were very sore. I walked over to the cleft where the water ran. It trickled down slowly, drop by drop. I set a tin under the trickle