At Lago Muerte, the fishermen calmly cast out their lines, reeling in very tiny fish. I felt out of place because I forgot my pole. When I looked closer, the lake was an empty plain filled with dried logs and rocks. I could barely make out the line where the waves once lapped. One of the fishermen turned to me, “This is an impossible feeling,” he said as he tugged another glistening one out of the lake. The fish tried to breathe and stared past me. “Everything is nonsense, but you can’t help but feel lucky.” He resumed fishing. Afraid of being hooked by one of them, I backed up. I started telling them about the time I hooked my thumb all the way through, but they stopped me because I had already told them.