In Uruguay, a drug dog ate my reputation then gave me the mumps. Illegal feelings from an unsung deity, how she prayed with me, this goddess associated with dreams. Rucksack baggage, my dead uncle once called it, his pockmarked body surrounded by guns. A backpacker’s backpack, a knapsack for gats. In Holbox, Mexico, I found a tartar arm in the understorage of our dormitory homestay. In Hopkins, Belize, I found a fist in the basement. I hated the blankness of the blankets. Tarmac arm, the Colombian government corrected me later, said the arm was wrapped in airplane flaps, said this kind of thing happens all the time. And what of his mucus ducts? I asked. What about them? the Venezuelan representatives replied. Nothing, I hushed. Nothing. Plane pieces can pass through you more than once, they reminded me. A man with facial buttons sold me a sack of onion-smelling grass, grass green onions, while out past the pastures of Ecuador, on an unfinal island called Jambeli. The button faced man called the bag a tire. A trash can of plastic wrapped wheels. When I asked him why, he described his mucus ducts. His falling parts. He was falling apart. He was broken. He repeated this three times. I wanted no part in visiting the park with him that weekend. I only wanted to chew through a pool hall wall in private. A trident. A chocolate cough. Bloody forehead. I remember cracking my ankle when I heard it twist. I remember having ripped shins when I heard the purposeless tornado ate her dad. I pictured it, then him, thrown out of orbit, closer than ever, closer than any of us ever will be, to the greediest evening’s moon.