I followed him outside under a blazing sun to a distant corner of the tarmac, where we came to a rusted collection of metal scraps in the shape of a bush plane—the main cabin no bigger than the inside of a small car. It shuddered on the rutted tar, diesel sputtering, a farting, ancient beast. The propeller took its time to rotate, mulling flight with minimal enthusiasm. From the pilot’s window, a tan arm in a torn sleeve rested across the metal edge, cigarette dangling.

I can leave, I thought. I don’t have to do this. This is possibly a very bad idea.

Omar turned to me, read me, said, “It’s okay, Lily. You’ll be okay. I’ve done this many times before.”

All of me wanted to believe him, even as pangs of fear and doubt sprung up in my gut. But it didn’t matter; I was all in. Fear and doubt were old friends; ignoring them had served me pretty well so far, or at least that’s what I believed. Besides, just beyond the cool glass wall, the waiting room bustled with strangers from around the world, with people who didn’t give a shit about me, people busy heading to their own Omars, their own places they called home.

We walked together to the plane. After instructing me to sit next to the pilot, Omar disappeared in the back of the cramped four-seater. As he rearranged our small pile of belongings, I settled on the sun-bleached leather seat and strapped myself in, nodding at the little bush pilot: a ropey man in a T-shirt featuring a teenage Britney Spears in full pout, a Chicago Bears baseball cap worn backward, board shorts, and no shoes. He looked at me with no expression, then back out at the horizon. Behind me, I heard the sound of someone spitting.

I glanced in the narrow rearview mirror, spider veined with cracks. A hunched figure rooted around in a canvas sack. Panchito tucked his bag in the narrow aisle, turned, and planted himself in the small bucket seat next to Omar’s. He arranged his leg, sat up, grinned, and said hola. His cheeks bulged as he chewed coca leaf, the occasional shred falling from his mouth, his teeth stained faintly green. He tilted a flask in my direction; I nodded yes and knocked back a few burning gulps of strong pisco before handing it back to him.

The 1950s-era amphibious Cessna whined like a lawn mower as we wobbled and jounced across the rutted tarmac; every rock and stone under the wheels jangled us. The stiff breeze that swept down from the mountains tipped the wings up and down. Even strapped in, we helplessly rolled in our seats as the plane gathered speed.

The moment we ran out of runway we lifted off, something heavy and metal slamming in the hold with a thunderous boom as we did so, the tail dropping sickeningly before we took on any real altitude, finally gaining a delicate equilibrium, some primitive compromise of wind and metal and basic aerodynamics.