Before the taxi hit him, as it took a quick right without signalling, and before he spent two weeks in and out of consciousness, Llama had been at the beach. They’d biked twenty miles across the city. His wife and him. A six-pack buried under their towel, a couple of bananas, a frisbee and a bottle of water in his bag.
They’d expected thick crowds and rocky shores, but found a sandy expanse, dotted with just a handful of other swimmers and sunbathers, surrounded by dense forest.
Sometimes, he’d wake up in the hospital, thinking weeds had brushed his foot.