When I took out the garbage for the first time, my parents were proud, watching me from the living room window. I lifted the lid and then sealed it just like I was taught, drug the can a few feet from the curb. The garbage truck came and the man smiled at me and flipped the bill of my baseball cap. But during the walk back to the house, I was a different boy. All my parts had suddenly died and were reborn. The house was miles away and looked like the kind of house a spider would live in, if a spider spent its days acting human. The walk took hours. When I got back, all the doors were locked, and I could only see through the living room window that my little sister was feeding the cat, her first chore too, but we didn’t have a cat, and I didn’t have a sister. I knocked and knocked on the window, and yelled I’m here. I’m your son but my parents never heard any of it. In the future, it’s Christmas in Tierra del Fuego and all the villagers are dead. I am touching my body like a jellyfish in a giant mirror.