On the border between somewhere and somewhere, a gaucho with a fever roams the oxide-ridden hills, his arms wrapping a quilt around his skinny, fragile frame, and his eyes obscured by his wide-brimmed hat. He stumbles as he walks, barely keeping himself upright. One night I saw him there; his staggered dance matching the description of what I'd been told by a midwife in a dilapidated bar the night before, his torn boots shimmying unnaturally across the rusted dirt. I was frozen with fear of what might befall me. He finally passed me, and with him came hot air that conjured up unstable geometries and butchery that smelled of liquor, mulch, and cannabis. As he moved sluggishly away, it was as if he didn't even recognize my being there; realizing this, I turned towards him, and he immediately stopped his tottering form. Slowly, he turned his head around his shoulders, as if he were an owl. You there, boy, he coughed out through chapped, bloodied lips, his leering eyes still unseen from beneath his cap. Got any spirits? He hoarsely questioned, mustering all the energy he had. I didn't respond, as per the midwife's warning I received the night prior. Ah, shame, he whispered, responding to my silence, turned his head back, and started lurching onwards, continuing on his feverish dance.