Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift Read Online Free PDF Page B

of it occupied by a motley crew of backpackers from everywhere, as in the accents ran Scottish to German to New York to local. Behind them, the hotel restaurant was setting up for lunch.
    Juan checked us in. Then with a see-you-later, he vanished into the street.
    Dad set his hands on his hips and his mouth thin-set and stared after the guy. Watched him fade into the crowd on the walk. Maybe willing him to come back. Understanding that he wouldn’t. At least, that was what I got from the exchange. I figured we were on our own.
    Until we got to our room on the third floor—oh my God, the climbing. Two lousy flights of stairs. My lungs heaved and my heart did this staccato thing. The altitude.
    I gulped air to calm it down and stepped on an envelope that had been slid under the door.
    Before I had a chance to remove my foot, Dad had already bent to pick it up. No writing on the outside. No marks to indicate who had done the sliding.
    A raucous laugh pierced the air. I thought what ?—then realized the room had a huge window overlooking the lobby and that housekeeping had left it open. Dad remedied that in three long motions. One long step. A reach with each hand. It seemed like too much for him to be able to do in his condition. Hurculean, in fact.
    “I just want some privacy,” he said.
    “Are you okay?”
    He rolled his eyes at me. Having a little fun. Only the fun didn’t extend to any other part of him. He looked like he might implode, actually.
    The room had two beds with gray and scarlet wool blankets, a space heater, and a TV. I picked the bed farthest from the window and dropped my stuff at its foot while Dad opened the envelope.
    The note inside said only Meet you there .
    “Where’s there?” I asked.
    “Aguas Caliente,” he said.
    He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and put it down on the night table. Then he sat down on his bed. He didn’t move for a minute. In fact, he laid down. Which meant he wouldn’t be getting back up for a few hours. I wanted to ask him if he needed anything, but his breathing had slowed and the nap had already begun.
    With the window closed, stuffiness started to set in. I didn’t feel right opening it again, though. And I didn’t want to stay in here and try to figure out the hotel WiFi. Or sit there helpless to do anything for him. Because I was in fact helpless. And I refused to fucking cry again.
    I took the Visa out of Dad’s wallet and the room key and made my way down to the restaurant, which had a handful of tables with windows that looked out on the street and a dark fireplace. Bossa nova on the sound system. Waiters clustered behind the bar. I was the first, and at the moment, only customer.
    I ordered fizzy water—agua con gas, I was informed—and a dish with beef and onions and chiles and tomatoes and French fries and rice. I could hardly taste it. I ordered a guide book, too, which one of the waiters borrowed from the front desk. I couldn’t concentrate enough to read.
    Dad came downstairs well before I expected him. He sat down at the table. Or used the chair and table to hold himself upright. He ordered a cup of coca tea.
    “No lunch?” I asked.
    “No time. The taxi I called will be here in ten minutes. You finish, though.”
    I forced down the rest of my food.
    Dad had brought his and my backpacks with him. He drank fast, paid the bill, and stepped outside. Even if Dad pretended to be casually leaning against the wall and we both knew better.
    We loaded backpacks in the taxi’s trunk. The driver bottomed out the car and almost ran over a wild dog with bad street crossing skills on the way out of Cusco.
    The drive took two and a half hours. Down in altitude, but we had to go up to get down. Winding, climbing roads. Alternating drizzle and sunshine. Landslides, with fallen rocks neatly swept onto one half of the road and boulders left where they fell. Not picked up. Not carted away. Not like at home.
    The valley opened up around us. Enormous terraces