Desemboque

It was close to midnight when I arrived at Desemboque. Desemboque, the mouth of the river. Only there was no river that I could see. And it seemed, even in the middle of the night, that I’d arrived at Dante’s Ninth Ring of Hell. That’s all I could think of at that moment.

It was midnight and, with the windows open, still it felt like about 1,000 degrees, and as much humidity, here on…