Prologue

Hands that could not escape the humidity and sweat almost caused me to drop it.

The bottle, enshrouded in a coat of condensation after being pulled from the hotel refrigerator lobby, was the only thing that was between me and another parched morning.

Summers in Minnesota - while muggy sometimes - never prepared me for the Peruvian sun. An old fan on a makeshift shelf behind the front desk whirred quietly as it struggled to move from side to side. Coke bottle in hand and with two large suitcase at my feet, every time the fan hit my face I felt a rushing sense of relief.

As I waited for my brother and parents, from across the hotel's pockmarked and scorched parking lot I watched the surface of a grimy pool ripple with the motions of bugs larger than anything I had ever seen. Somewhere a few hours west of Lima, I could hear the sounds of this small town come to life. The loud, high-pitched sound of motorbikes struck me the most.

Growing up in Hardly-Davidson country, small motorbikes - or mopeds as I knew them - where not something you wanted to be seen driving, unless you were ready to receive ridicule from anyone who saw you on one. Sometimes I would see one or two, but they did not carry the same sound as they did in Peru. As ubiquitous as the potholes in the road, an endless echo of the acceleration and deceleration of these bikes could be heard in any populated area.

Standing in the hotel lobby, even a few motorbikes made it sound like the area was filled with traffic. It was a foreign sound. Just as foreign as the Coke bottle in my hand, which had a ring of dingy stains at the the neck that would never come out, presence its long life in the hands and mouths of thirsty locals or visitors.

Leaning on the front desk in the lobby and looking out the open door, my senses were bombarded with sounds, smells, temperatures, and sights that were completely different to my home environment. I thought about how strange it was. There I found myself in the winter of 1994 in a small hotel in a small city in Peru which to most might be nothing spectacular, but every moment was so different from the next that, when I had time to be alone, I found myself in a state like nothing I had experienced.

My first trip abroad was three years prior when I was 14. I went to the UK and, while it was different, it had many similarities to my home in Minnesota. This, however, this was truly different. And I loved it. I loved the complete disconnect from anything that was familiar. Even though my presence in Peru was to assist my father's missionary work - which was loathsome for me - just being in such different surroundings was invigorating. Was this what people meant when they referred to the "travel bug", I asked myself.

My feelings of peace in what to me was chaotic surroundings was interrupted as the rest of my group came through the lobby. I had already lugged down two of the massive suitcases filled with religious literature that we brought with us and my older brother Alex soon appeared with the second two suitcases. While we had a short rough patch during our early teenage years, Alex and I have always remained extremely close. If it weren't for Alex I don't think I would have managed to get through many parts of my life. Peru was exciting yet agonizing in many ways, and having Alex there made it all easier. I put my coke bottle - still over half full and cool to the touch - on the front desk and lugged two of the four heavy suitcases out to our van where our driver awaited.

We had been lugging these suitcases since our departure from home. Through airports, bus stations, trains, hotels, and many times loading and unloading them into different cars, taxis, and vans. Alex and I ruminated amongst ourselves that our father brought us with not to give us a unique experience, but to carry the luggage. These suitcases were not the expensive, light kind that you might see today at a high-scale luggage boutique. These were heavy-duty Samsonite 1990s suitcases, and the worst kind. They were heavy themselves, only had two wheels on one end that only allowed you to pull them one way, and they were shaped oddly, with sharp angular edges on the top.

How I loathed those suitcases.

Loading them up in the van only increased the sweat dripping from my forhead and staining my white shirt. I had never been in an environment in which I could never get cool and never stop sweating. With the luggage loaded, I went back to the front desk of the hotel, grabbed my Coke bottle and was happy to find it was still nice and cool. It should have been because it was practically frozen when the front desk clerk pulled it out of the refrigerator. I was surprised at the time but now I knew the reason for this over-chilling. Happy at the little things in life like a Coke bottle that is still cold after being exposed to the morning Peruvian heat for 30 minutes, I saw that the rest of the group - my parents and another church member, Bob - were at the van.

I made my way to the van and shared morning pleasantries and the usual obligatory "God bless you" greetings. Saying these became automatic after a life growing up deeply ingrained in religion.

"Where did you get that coke?" My father suddenly asked me as I was standing to the side of the sliding door waiting to hop in the van.

"I bought it at the front desk," I replied.

"That's your mother's Coke, isn't it?" I glanced over and saw my mother, who was obviously thirsty and, like me, not enjoying the heat.

"No, I bought this at the front desk," I retorted, making sure to say it respectfully.

"Show me the receipt."

"I didn't receive a receipt, but you can ask the front desk clerk."

"Stop lying, Ethan, that's your mother's Coke. She had it right here, went to the bathroom, came back and it was gone. Now you have a Coke bottle. Why did you take it?"

"I didn't!"

"Then where is your mother's Coke?"

"I don't know, but I didn't take it. This is a Coke I bought. Ask Alex, he saw me with it."

I didn't want to drag Alex into anything, but at this point I was getting really annoyed. Throughout my entire life, my father was never wrong. Or that's the way he saw it. Even if he was, he would never admit it. It was always someone else's mistake. Someone else's fault. Someone who was lying. Even if proof were presented to him, it would be ignored. He was right. End of story.

After 17 years of this, annoyed at lugging heavy suitcases from Minnesota to Equador, and uncomfortable with the relentless sweating, I had had enough. I decided I was going to stand my ground this time.

"Sorry Ethan, I didn't notice you with a Coke bottle when I came down," Alex interjected. He probably didn't notice but even if he did, we both knew that if we both got involved we would then both suffer the consequences. I decided not to dwell on it.

"Maybe Alex didn't see me, but this is my Coke. I bought it and did not steal Mom's Coke," I said, my voice shaking and struggling to stay steady. It took all my strength to refrain from yelling.

"How could you lie straight to my face so easily?! And when we are here on a missionary trip, on our way to a church to spread the message?! How could you have such evil inside you?! Confess now and we can take the evil out of this group! Confess now and you can be forgiven!"

This might not be the exact words my father said, but they are not far off. It might seem a little excessive and melodramatic, but my father was like that. By the time I was 16 I was disowned more times than I could remember. I was told I had the devil inside me, made to stand up in front of our church and confess things that I did not do, and was called Cane (from the biblical Cane and Abel story) on many occasions.

My father had a habit of yelling and degrading you so much that it would wear you down until you eventually gave in to his demands.

But this time I was really determined not to be forced to confess yet again to something I did not do. A yelling match ensued between us. I was told what an evil person and liar I was many times, and that my only redemption would be to confess. According to my father, I knew I took my mother's Coke. I was just that kind of person - someone who would steal their mother's cool drink in sweltering heat and then lie about it.

The longer I stuck to my guns, the later it became. My mother tried to end the argument by saying it was okay, even if I did take the Coke, she didn't care and just wanted the argument to end. Alex wisely stood to the sidelines. Bob obviously felt uncomfortable but took my father's side, and asked me to just confess and get it over with. I don't think he actually cared about the truth, but just wanted the uncomfortableness to end. Our driver - a member of the church we were on our way to visit - also obviously felt uncomfortable as he waited in the van.

As we continued to argue it got later in the morning, and then a new evil was added to my father's litany of grievances: my lack of a confession was making us late. We had a long drive ahead of us through mountains and unkept roads. We would miss the meetings and services at the church, and it would all be my fault. We weren't going anywhere until I confessed, said my father, so the longer I argued the worse it became.

The more I thought about it I realized that, like many circumstances with my father, my desire for justice wasn't worth the pain that would ensue. I weighed my options. Stand my ground and be stuck here, risking my father getting more and more incensed, causing more of a scene which would make my mother cry and subject me to more psychological and perhaps physical abuse from my father. Or I could confess to something I didn't do and it would end rather quickly.

By this time tomorrow things would be as back to normal as they could be, though my father would always hold my so-called transgression over me. Thinking over my options I came to a conclusion.

Justice over a Coke bottle wasn't worth it.

So I confessed to taking my mother's Coke. I apologized to my father for being a horrible sinner. I then had to apologize to my mother, Bob, and our driver from the church we were going to. When we arrived at the church, I had to apologize to the church elders for making us late. At the start of my father's sermon he was quick to apologize on my behalf; apologize for his backsliding son that caused us to be late, brought a cloud of sin over everything, and just ruined the day in general.

Confessing to something you didn't do is not easy. If you have done this you know what I mean. You might ask why I didn't just confess from the outset to avoid going down the long road and making it worse. It's a valid question. But after 17 years of such instances, I thought an easy place to stand my ground would be over whose Coke bottle I was drinking.

It was much better than some of the other transgressions I was accused of throughout my childhood and early adult years. If there was a time to stand my ground and hopefully make my father relent, it would be about a simple thing as a Coke bottle.

But he did not relent. He would not stop until he was proven right. He would go to any ends to make sure that he did not lose any face; that he would not be proven wrong and that it would not be revealed that he made a mistake. Instead of admitting he might have been wrong, he shamed and psychologically abused his son.

All over a Coke.

Growing up, I looked so many times for justice. I tried countless times to prove to my father that I was a good person. I looked to my father for validation. I looked for my father to be supportive and loving.

Instead, I found myself feeling worthless and afraid.