But Hershel wouldn’t remember that, and it had nothing to do with the accident. Though Hershel’s brain injury had been cause for Carl to take a hard look at life. The deaths, or near deaths, of friends and acquaintances always made him wonder why he was daily spared. He should have died in a jungle. He should have been dead now more times than he could count, but for some reason he trod on through like some well-armored insect. Carl hadn’t seen a doctor in decades. No need to. He listened to the people around him, especially the ones near his own age, talk about their aches, their blood pressure, their arthritis. It fascinated him, but it also repulsed him. He had abused his body in ways most people would never dream of, yet he rose every morning feeling more or less the same, worked through his day, and fell into bed at night with nothing more urgent or disturbing than a minor case of heartburn. And then only when Yolanda, his neighbor across the common courtyard, made extra-spicy tamales and shared them around Campo Rojo.
