I find it in a prickly shrub—leather torn, discolored, and misshapen. Nearby, a patchy soccer field can be seen, the boundaries marked with indentations in the soft mud. Goals are represented by the gap between two leftover Coca-Cola cans. Its owner is nowhere in sight except for a trail of footprints leading towards a now inhabited village. I reach for it, as the minute daggers cut my unwashed hands. On it are two letters followed by a number written in crayon. The scorching sun at my zenith. I cross the field where it once dribbled—where it once soared through the sky, in search of someone to receive it.