Humberto Benjamín Clavería
Manuel Urrutia couldn’t get to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he thought of the damaged skull with a gold tooth that he had hidden away inside his backpack. He seemed to sense the dead thing emerging from the bag, covered in soft tissue, crowned with a mop of fresh flowing hair. His skin stood on end merely imagining that the bodiless head might suddenly come to life, approach him and begin to talk to him, to tell him who he was, to share his past with him. Or perhaps he would weep or laugh. And the gold tooth would shine in the light of his bedside lamp.








