An image begins to take shape. An American man has spent years traveling the world, popping up in city after city but never staying too long in one place. Finally, he imagines, he is coming home, reaching a bus stop at Crawford, New Hampshire. A few old men he knows from a previous life sit around talking in McAllister's, a general store. Given the massive machete scar on his face and his limp, they struggle to recognize him. Three years in the jungles of Guatemala have left him a different man. Slowly, he limps the three miles from McAllister's to his father's house at the other end of the village. He imagines the old men behind him trying to figure out where he's been all these years -- they remember that five years prior, he quit an advertising job in Florida to visit his father after a heart attack and then left again, but they get no further than that. He rewinds. This time, he steps off the bus more confidently, with just a duffel bag in his hands. He slowly builds himself a backstory. Maybe, he thinks, he would need a gun, but since he wouldn't have been able to bring one into the U.S., he would've had to buy it after he went through Miami. And to get there, he would've needed to lose some CIA agents and walk all the way from Guatemala to Mexico. Every so often, he has had to show his face in Mexico to throw the authorities off of his trail, but each time he returns to Che Guevara in Guatemala, he is welcomed with open arms. Three thousand miles away, he steps off a Greyhound bus in Crawford. Buffeted by the sights and sounds of his youth, he struggles to adjust to his new surroundings and, upon a trip to the barber, his own face, clean-shaven and unmarked.