We lost the game and took a seat on the stone bleachers. Above the soccer court, a truck carrying fruit rushed by in the night. Weary passengers lay on top of mangos and bananas, staring up at the starry sky. Together they huddled under blankets and prepared for their journey over the snowy mountain pass. In five hours they would have passed through as many climates. Their faces were alien, of another world. They were headed home, back to their city in the jungle. "We should camp in Quillabamba sometime," I said casually, almost under my breath. Bryan glanced at me to see if I was serious. "In the jungle?" he said, cocking his eyebrow. "When?" "I don't know, whenever, sometime this month." He looked at me again, scanning my eyes for a molecule of insincerity.
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