IN THE FIRST FEW HOURS THERE WAS NOTHING, no fear or sadness, no thought or memory, just a black and perfect silence. Then light appeared, a thin gray smear of daylight, and I rose to it like a diver swimming to the surface. Consciousness seeped through my brain in a slow bleed; I heard voices and sensed motion all around, but I could see only dark silhouettes and pools of light and shadow. Then, vaguely, I sensed that one of the shadows was hovering over me.

"Nando, podés oírme? Can you hear me? Are you OK?"

As I stared dumbly, the shadow gathered itself into a human face. I saw a ragged tangle of dark hair above deep brown eyes. There was kindness in the eyes—this was someone who knew me—but also something else, a wildness, a sense of desperation held in check.

"Come on, Nando, wake up!"

Why am I so cold? Why does my head hurt so badly? I tried to speak these thoughts, but my lips could not form the words. Carefully I reached up to touch the crown of my head. Clots of dried blood were matted in my hair; I felt rough ridges of broken bone beneath the congealed blood, and when I pressed down lightly I felt a spongy sense of give. My stomach heaved as I realized that I was pressing pieces of my skull against the surface of my brain.

"Is he awake? Can he hear you?"

"Say something, Nando!"

"Don't give up, Nando. We are here with you. Wake up!"

All I could manage was a hoarse whisper. Then someone spoke slowly in my ear.

"Nando, el avión se estrelló! Caimos en las montañas."

We crashed, he said. The airplane crashed. We fell into the mountains.

"Do you understand me, Nando?"