Wingo was a wanderer by nature. In tales of his childhood he recalled staying in the jungle until night fall, only brought back to his village by the enticing thought of his mother huddled over the fire preparing food.
I wake up slightly disoriented and quickly tug at the zip. A tepid breeze sifts through the tall trees overhead, casting flecks of sunlight on the leaf-littered forest floor.
The only sound is my heart beating into my full, heavy ears as I glide weightlessly through my slippery surroundings, guided only by the beam of a flashlight.
“Oh, the kids here do one of those every year” someone shrugged by way of explanation. I continued to gawp, utterly horrified, at the giant papier-mâché edifice hanging only a few meters above my disbelieving head.