He jumps, something in him flies, something that isn’t his body but that may be an animal that grows trapped in his bones (it isn’t a bird it isn’t a rat it isn’t a wolf it isn’t a scorpion it isn’t a hummingbird it isn’t a fox nor is it skin or blood it isn’t the wild neither is it the tender or poisonous it’s everything we cannot say about animals everything that’s the animal silence beating within the body about to make it shatter). His pupils betray the imprisoned animal that doesn’t stop dancing and his legs that jump could be those of the terrorized rat that’s found the escape route, or those of the wolf that hugs the air howling the loneliness of its spirit, but his human legs don’t reach the little plank set out for him on the other side, his legs fall, and with them falls his body, arching over the grass. Four floors. Broken legs. He’s flying. He’s five years old. They take him to the hospital. In the taxi he looks into the green eyes of a beautiful woman, he’s reflected in them, and he tells her he can fly, the woman cries, he calms her with his tan hands, in the mirror of those eyes he sees his own crying face, but he doesn’t recognize himself. The two legs broken in multiple places, the fractured hip, collapsed spine. He, whole. With a pain that isn’t important because his body has touched the air, and he and reality are, from then on, two entities that almost always take place in contradiction (like his body and air, like the airplane and emptiness), and also because everything that happens will happen in his favor (and he already knows that). His friend tells him to jump: I place my plank and you place your foot on your plank, the plank lifts you up and you reach my balcony, and he doesn’t think about it, he believes her and wants to jump and fall. He’s missing air but breathes happily because the emptiness he felt cut his body with a reverberating tingling isn’t like anything else, the sensation of the pure hole opening space in his body and then the wonderment of being alive. Fall standing and then breathe. The displacement of his body in that vertical vortex has given him another perspective on things and their order (everything can go at another speed or everything can dissolve or everything can be seen backward) and she’s made him not only a survivor but an exceptionally gifted being, a visionary whose truth made of adrenaline and courage will sketch out his whole future. Women and men will take care of him and carry him from one place to another, he cannot walk for a time that at his young age extends throughout all time, those men and those women—including the green-eyed woman—will carry him in their arms, will build devices to assist his movement, will entertain him with stories and gifts, and the colorful medicine will also do its thing, provoking sweats and shivers and calming an anxiety he feels tingling in his feet and penis and all that will be his reality, nothing coinciding with the other one, the one with the broken bones, the pain, the rigidity of the cast.