"No," Juan said, tracing the flame's shadow on her palm. "North is a direction. The line is just how you choose to walk."
They stayed in the salt flats for another week, sleeping in the truck, arguing about everything—whether a line could be curved, whether memory was a kind of map, whether the puma was worth the detour (it was; the puma turned out to be a taxidermy fox with a wig). Juan taught her to dance the zamba. Agnessa taught him to calculate fuel efficiency in liters per hundred kilometers. Neither of them learned anything from the other, except patience. agnessa and juan