On the day a space pod crashes in Quito, its nose buried in a flowery explosion of cobble, its legs bent, swooping wing-fins and webs of chrome tubing scorched, scarlet handprints dripping down the inside of its bubbly window, Fermín is at home in Los Bancos, surrounded by toucan cries and cloud forest. He’s fidgeting with his lucky spaceship key chain as rain begins hissing on the house roof, soft at first, then vicious.
He is staring at the stranger outside.