📸 Photo

For the first time my thoughts carried me far away. In my mind I already been rescued from the jungle. I had made my way to a village, to La Paz, and from there by plane to Miami. From Miami I head for Oregon, where Kevin's family lives. I have already phoned them, telling them of his death, but still I owe them a personal explanation of what happened and how. Having to face his parents is the hard part.

I am going by Greyhound bus, and the trip from Miami to Oregon takes three days. Every few hours the bus pulls over for a rest stop and a snack at McDonald's, Burger King, or Jack-in-the-Box. I go into the restaurant just like all the other passengers, but when I get to the counter, I order four Big Macs and five fish sandwiches, six orders of fries, two large shakes, and three pieces of apple pie. The clerk thinks I am ordering for the group, but then I sit down at a table by myself. I bite into the hamburger, the melted cheese oozing out, the onion and pickle crunching; the milk shake goes down smooth and easy. The other passengers stare at me in amazement. They've never seen anyone eat like that.

Finally, I reach Kevin's parents' home.

'It wasn't my fault. Please believe me. I waited for him five days. I waited, but he never showed up. I saved food for him, I didn't eat it all by myself. I kept calling out to him. I waited and waited, and he never came. I had to go on. Believe me, I had no other choice.'