Neither of us wanted to do it. 

Why did we reach the extreme of feeling no remorse when the new friend jumped from the Christ the Redeemer down to the ground? 

His body fell like an Olympic diving specialist. But…his legs shattered, and the dry earth dragged the unconscious body toward the road. 

He had started dancing, laughing, talking about his fake wife, his fake wedding, his birthday, and he wanted gifts we weren’t going to give him because we didn’t know him. He talked and talked, moving his body from one side to the other at the edge, and suddenly… 

"We drank too much," Andrés told me, holding the bubblegum-flavored vodka bottle. Andrés forced a bitter smile. 

We ignored the sound of bones breaking, ignored the sound… 

"We’re dreaming, man. Everything’s spinning," I said. I didn’t want to speak out loud or laugh; I wasn’t even thinking about what I was saying. The boy was dead on the side of the road, a damned summer Thursday. 

Andrés, dizzy, lowered his head to vomit. Dinner stayed in his stomach; only gastric juices canceled the alcohol and rose to his throat. 

"You know tomorrow I’ve got a hard day at work," Andrés said. 

"I wish I could say the same," I replied. 

He poured another drink of vodka and energy drink with ice into the plastic cup. 

"What will we say if they ask?" I asked Andrés. 

"It happens all the time," he answered confidently. "All the time people in this town kill themselves by jumping from the Christ." 

In my head, the image of the boy mixed with that of Christ, long hair, beard, Jewish-looking. For a split second I saw Christ, the fifteen-meter cement monument, throwing himself from the hill. 

"Oh…could we imitate him?" I said to Andrés. He looked at me, tears in his eyes. 

"It’s the first time I’ve seen a dead person," he said. 

I answered, completely hallucinated by the image of Christ plunging into the void: "It’s the first time I feel religious, man."  

And to feel religious is to fear death. 

"I think we should leave, escape…hide. We killed him," Andrés said. Oh, he felt paranoid. 

"We didn’t kill him," I said, drinking a little. "The boy wanted to become an angel." Sometimes things like that came to me. 

"We didn’t kill him. You didn’t kill him. I killed him. I pushed him with my gaze. I just wanted him to leave. We were here first. This is our resting place." And Andrés felt tired. Drunk, paranoid, and tired. 

And I felt light. Drunk, light, and Christian. 

"We could tell the police his sacrifice was for all of us. We’ll call the Vatican. He’ll be our saint of Recreo. We have to invent his miracles, appear on local radio, on television. We’re his apostles," I said, wanting to believe our plan would work perfectly. 

"I’ll never see my parents or my dogs again, or you, if the police come," Andrés said. 
He was right.. 

The unknown boy, that uninvited new friend, showed his freckled face, sang a cumbia with us, and drank from our glass. He became light in a blink. He never told us his name or surname. He said his parents were dead and that he had been fired from Arcor, the candy factory, for threatening the production of its best Christmas product by putting horse tranquilizers into the panettone dough. The unknown boy laughed as he said they found him hanging from the machine with the empty pill jar. The boy said: "Relaxing Christmases." I heard him. 

Andrés was buried in his phone. He didn’t hear. 

And while I thought about it…we needed “Relaxing Christmases.” It wasn’t a bad idea to put horse tranquilizers in the panettone; he should have done it with the puddings and chocolates. This town would feel peace. A peace that doesn’t exist when the water cuts off and the heat makes even the walls sweat and the air conditioners fail. I thought about it and told Andrés:  

"You need a vacation." 

"I’ll be in Santiago del Estero tomorrow at noon. I’ll change my identity. Give me your ID," he said. And I took out my wallet and gave him my ID card. 

"I’ll get surgery on my face and body. I’ll be you and you’ll be me." 

Exchange of identities. My friend Andrés proposed an exchange of identities. Why didn’t he want to swap identities with the dead boy? 

If they exchanged identities with the dead boy, Andrés would die and not that boy. And I would tell the police…what would I tell the police? 

It was good for both of us if the boy woke up, stood up, and walked home, wherever his home was. 

"Half a glass," I told Andrés. 

Andrés looked around. 

Trucks and cars passed along the road. 

No one stopped to look at the body of the unknown boy. The boy was part of the general photograph of the landscape. 

"We can confess…" Andrés said. 

"The priest will never betray us to the police. It’s in church law," I replied 

"But it’s a sin. Killing is a sin," he said, trembling, nervous. 

I breathed deeply. 

I sighed. 

"I repent you," I said. 

Andrés drank the last sip of vodka. 

"I repent you," I repeated, dizzy and solemn. 

"It’s time to go home," Andrés said a second later with the empty glass. 

I patted him on the back. 

We slowly descended from Christ the Redeemer. 

We got on our motorcycles.