Everything was a golden brown. Everything. Small rolling hills like scoops of ice cream melting into a vast expanse of sun-baked clay. Where the golden brown ended, blue began, arching overhead, turning us where we stood. Disappearing into that crease of blue and golden brown, the road halved by faded white lines, bearing everything mechanical that came this way. We, three raccoon masks of white skin contrasted against burnt cheeks and stubbled jaws, stood, the four-door Toyota truck idling on the gravel edge until Rex reached in through the open window, rolling the key backward, leaving the last sounds to roll and tumble along the bristled terrain, to be grabbed and pulled to nothingness by coarse tendrils of grass, like wind-hurried sea foam disintegrating with sand’s coarse caress. In that long held breath of time, three guanacos stood, their shimmering visages of boundless surroundings looking back on our looking forward, motionless in their curiosity.