He wasn’t from there, and as he passed crop after unrecognizable crop, the urge to stop overtook him. He pulled to the side of the road, and there he was, a grown-ass man sneaking into a field. He could have picked something near the road, but he walked down a row toward what appeared to be a grove. No matter where he was, he felt like a trespasser. When quail flushed from the brush near the sugarcane patch, he fell to the ground, thinking someone was shooting at him or that he had stepped into some kind of trap designed to catch a creature with no natural predators. His fear fell on him like a net, and he stumbled, then sat. Whenever he did something out of the ordinary, he thought of death. Who would find his body? What would they think? Surely, there would be an autopsy, some aged person parsing through him, looking for causes in the chaos of his corpse. Actually, he knew nothing about autopsies, not even what one learns from cop shows on TV. And what if he were only on the brink of death? Would the person who found him attempt to drag him back, or? He crawled into the small thicket of sugarcane and squatted until dark. Finally, he managed to tug two stalks from the mud. He carried one in each hand. Back at his car, he searched the trunk for something to cut one of them open, but he only had a tire tool. When he missed the cane, sparks flitted from the pavement. The hammering sounded like someone trying to break into the very world. The mangled mess reminded him of ribbons. He sniffed it and forced his tongue out as if it might melt in the moonlight. The sweetness grabbed at his breath. He held it in his mouth until he got his bearings.