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MARCÍLIO FRANÇA CASTRO Borderline By the time Leon realized it, nearly an hour had gone by since he passed the turnoff for Salto. But the sign still hadn’t appeared. At that point, the highway had become a trackless, straight line, and if memory served, it would continue like that for hundred ks o ilo f meter , a m s onotonous landscape rising and falling until the final thoroughfare to the coast. The temperature there, unlike what most people are used to, gets colder the farther north you go. The strip of ash suspended above the horizon was already broadcasting the misty cold that for a good part of the year covers the highlands. To the right, if you exited any off- ramp, the ocean wouldn’t be far. Innumerable times when crossing that stretch of land as a child, he would imagine a simple and purifying flight: pedal to the metal and the car would have liftoff; a few seconds more, free of any hindrances, the ocean would materialize, beckoning you eastward. Now he was the one who should be careful when passing the semitrucks. Curveless, the highway was deceptive: a vehicle, seemingly alone, could hide an entire convoy
Manoa – University of Hawai'I Press
Published: Feb 7, 2019
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