The warm softness of my bed amplifies the rawness of the scene. A young man kicks a policeman on his motorbike. The agent, clumsy, reaches for his gun. What follows is a mechanical sequence of movements: aim, fire, miss, get off the motorbike, aim again, pull the trigger twice. His attacker, his enemy, is now dead. Marcelo Agredo, still a teenager, is dead. “This is the country I am going back to,” I think.
Stay!