resilencia

When rabid winds would snarl against our windows, Papi would rein our family into the hallway at the back of the house. He would make us crouch down while he turned off all the lights, and my mother lined us up along the walls. Then my parents would each sit on the sides of us,
making an oval not unlike our dining table. It was rare that we felt fear during these sorts of storms. Papi made sure of that. He could tell stories for hours, folktales passed on from his mother and her mother before her. During the first storm I could remember, the only one I ever cried during, he pulled me into his lap and told a story about Juracán — the Taíno word to describe a tempest sent by a displeased god, a consortium of murderous gales and dazzling lightning meant to scare our people straight. A storm to make us drop to our knees and beg forgiveness for upsetting one who would prefer us under their boot than light on our feet. More colloquially known as a huracán or hurricane. I can still see my dad’s Cheshire grin from when
he got to the end. He wiped the remaining tears from my eyes and whispered the last part of the story, as it was only for me this time, “Isa, how lucky we are to live in a way that infuriates the gods.” He would say we must be doing something right to have garnered the wrath of María.

Today, I do not feel lucky. I am left tip-toeing around the pieces of shattered glass made by the wind’s bared teeth against the window. The shards decorate the typically sterile floor with patterns one might find adorning a cathedral. When the remaining drafts stray across the corridor, I hear the screams of patients whose medical beds I moved to the other side of the room earlier in the day. I do not have the luxury of exerting my lungs in this way, not at the moment. I need to conserve the stretching of my vocal cords for the hospital staff — the doctors, nurses, and orderlies who find ourselves fighting against the embodiment of chaos, one sweeping across the island on mists of cruel dispassion.

In the few days between Hurricanes Irma and María, my patient Jesusa was admitted after suffering a stroke. Though if you asked her, she was still having a fantastic week. The greying around her hairline still bounces with the flow of her dark curls, the lines of her face waving joyfully whenever she speaks. She is a rosy chestnut that one only transforms into after having braved the world’s most intricate fires. She did not scream at the shattering of her only protection from the hurricane, instead she paused between breaths, before finishing her lecture.

“You need to take a break. Even five minutes would do you good. Collect yourself. Running around tiring yourself out won’t help the rest of your patients.”

She means well, but I’m not in the mood, so my eyes look aside from her. The wall surrounding Jesusa’s head is covered in drawings from when her grandchildren visited a few days ago with their father. They had managed to see her before the winds picked up again,
spending hours on the floor of the hospital room drawing coquí frogs and stick figure scribbles holding hands. I helped tape them up when the kids asked. All of them stood along the edges of her bed reciting the familiar sound we hear from the coquí every night — “Co-kee.
Co-co-co-kee.”

With glass scattered along the floor, the room is now in need of a dust pan and any wind barrier I can come up with. That window cannot be left wide open during this storm. “Well I’ll see about getting the window covered so the wind doesn’t take down any of the drawings.”
Jesusa laughs lightly and nods.

“Isabella!” My name gets called out like a fishing line cast through the ward into the hospital room. It hooks into my scrubs and instead of letting it pull me, I race against the drag it would have caused, and rush out into the hall.

Outside of the patient room, I spot a sullen-faced orderly pacing past with a plastic blue container of water. “Broken window,” I tell him without catching his eyes, “Pick up the glass after you’re done.”

“Yes Nurse!” he says back. Without slowing his step, he speaks to himself, “Room 103 for cleaning.” Then he sounds off like a siren, “Last water container at nurse’s station! Last water container at nurse’s station!” and heads off toward the end of the hallway with the provision.

“Isabella!” My name whirrs by again like an arrow from my left, along with the slick turning of gurney wheels that accompanies the charge nurse’s bellow. “New patient, fresh from the triage tents.” She’s wheeling the patient towards me and I see the gusts that shattered 103’s window have laid waste to her entire frame. The grave, storm-paled face in dirtied scrubs approaching me is no longer my charge nurse, but la Llorona come to deliver her drowned children. “Put her where you can,” she says as she passes the gurney off to me. “She sustained mild injuries along her legs and took a hit from a large branch, but she’ll live.”

Burying my scoff, I ask, “And what if I have nowhere to put her?” The sobs from the young woman heaving under my tightened jaw come into focus and guilt creeps. “I’ll make it,” I say, nodding to the charge nurse.

She lowers her torso in a bow just enough to appear as only a head to the woman. “Gabbi, you’re in good hands.” And if she’s not, the charge nurse will return to drown me in a river.

Before she can float away, I ask, “Is there any word on supplies?”

The charge nurse’s face sinks, “FEMA hasn’t radioed in hours. Work with what you have.” What the hell do I have?

The tears below me continue, flowing out from the young woman’s face. An olive-toned face free of lines, soft as a wispy cloud. Her wavy brown hair is a bit trussed up from the fall, but there’s no sign of cranial trauma. She can’t be older than thirteen, probably not even out of middle school yet. Her right leg is wrapped in ruby compression bandages, the color splotching out from where her shin must be. The left leg has a few scrapes, likely from a fall, while every limb and piece of clothing has twigged leaf remains like she was embroidered by the forest itself.

A formidable bass orders from the end of the ward, booming me away from my inspection, “And Isabella! Get the gurney back to us immediately!” Sir, yes sir.

There is simply nowhere for Gabbi to be — I have no remaining beds in the ward, she can’t be sent to another ward, and the sky is throwing a fit outside. The most I can think to do is wheel the gurney into Room 103 along with Jesusa, as there’s at least the family chair alongside
the hospital bed where she can rest.

I lean down towards Gabbi who is seemingly forever a faucet and in an easing tone reserved for children, I ask “Hey Gabbi…do you know any good stories?” With closed eyes and gritted teeth, she shakes her head slowly. “Well I have an incredible storyteller in the room right behind me. Is it okay if I introduce you to her?” Gabbi’s eyes become the thinnest of alleyways, covered in leftover drops from the rain, and she nods. I break a smile just as thin, glad to see there’s life in her yet, and say “Good. First, you get to meet me though. I’m Nurse Isabella and
I’ll be taking care of you.”

“Well who’s the little garden hose?” Jesusa asks while Gabbi is wheeled in.

“You’ve got a new roommate, Jesusa,” I tell her. “Gabbi had a rough fall recently.”

Jesusa sits up a little straighter in her bed to ask, “And how did that happen on one of the most beautiful days?” Gabbi laughs in three short huffs from the gurney, then lets out a strained groan.

I lift Gabbi’s hand and press my other palm along her shoulder blade to help lift her up as I say, “She’ll let us know when she’s ready. For now, let’s get her setup.” Whatever ravine Gabbi stumbled into returned the favor, burying itself deep in the peach fuzz of her arms and dying her scrapes.

Jesusa gets up from her hospital bed and positions herself by the chair. “Let me help you. Gabbi, where do you want to go?” The girl winces as her bloodied leg touches the floor. Jesusa leans quickly and takes Gabbi’s free arm to help her.

Jesusa gets the first glance of Gabbi’s eyes when she opens them and says, “Thank you.” It’s clear that she has a bit of chest pain, but nothing that will last beyond a few hours. “I’ll take the chair.” Good, I can’t let Jesusa out of that bed for long. Gabbi finds herself lowered like a falling feather into the chair by Jesusa’s bed. The elderly woman removes one of the blankets we’ve given her and hands it to Gabbi. “Warm up Gabbi, we can get to know each other.” With Gabbi seated, my next issue is the glass and window it came from.

I start to wheel the gurney out when the orderly appears under the door frame with a dustpan. “I’m here for the glass,” he says. My teeth dig against my gums and the skin along the bridge of my nose flares when I instruct the orderly, “I’ll clean up the glass. Take this gurney to the tents and get me a big trash bag. Anything larger than that window. And tape!”

His eyes flint with affirmation and I hear him whispering to himself as he drives the gurney towards the end of the hall, “Big trash bag and tape. Big trash bag and tape.” There are more shards than I expected from the window. The constant bellowing from the opening left in the wall would make you believe we’re safe — a sustained whistle from a father calling his children home after dark. Then every few minutes there’s a blow that boxers would sell their souls to imitate in the ring — the sort of wind that has broken this window and brought Gabbi to us.

From the floor, I ask Gabbi, “How’s your leg feeling?”

Leaning forward a bit, she chirps back, “It hurts but it’s not as bad as when I first fell.”

Jesusa leans over from her bed and says, “That’s much better. So long as you’re okay, you can think of the cool scar you’ll have.”

Gabbi laughs a little again before she talks. “I was heading back to my grandparents’ place. I’m visiting from New York, but I got — I got stuck at my cousin’s house…when the storm started.” The words are puzzle pieces caught in her throat. “I wanted to…” She inhales
forcefully through her nostrils to hold back the phlegm building with her nerves.

“Easy Gabbi,” I say. “There’s no need to push it all out at once.”

“I wanted to make sure they were okay, since we couldn’t call them. They’re only a few streets over so I snuck out so I could go check.” Gabbi’s complexion is rising like the sun. “They’re gonna be so mad at me.”

Attempting to calm her, I say, “When the phones are back on, we’ll have you call them so they know you’re safe.”

She doesn’t respond. Not until Jesusa puts her hand on Gabbi’s arm and says, “They might be mad. But first they’ll be so happy to see you, and the mad won’t feel so bad.”

Then Gabbi looks at me and says “Okay, thank you Nurse Isabella.”
“Of course. Is it alright if I check your leg?” I ask.

Gabbi glances down then darts her eyes back to mine. “Yeah, but can you be careful?” I set down the dustpan filled with glass, far from the chair and the spot on the floor near it.

“As careful as I can be. If anything starts to hurt too much, let me know and I’ll stop, okay?” With Gabbi’s approving nod, I scoot myself closer to her chair. I make sure not to touch her leg, as I don’t have gloves on me at the moment.

“Gabbi, how exactly did you get to the hospital?” Jesusa asks. I swivel my head around the bloody bandage to see if there’s further damage on the back of Gabbi’s legs.

“Some neighbors saw me fall. They came out to help me and it turns out one had already called the ambulance.” Nothing major on the back of her legs. The right shin seems to be the only place that needs to be looked after.

“Did you tell them you were trying to get to your grandparents?”

“I tried but I couldn’t get the words out. In Spanish or English.”

“You were probably in shock,” I assure her. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, you’re safe and that’s what matters.”

“I just feel like I caused a lot of trouble…” Maybe she did, but not on purpose. And her reasons were noble, if not well thought out.

“A lesson learned, sure, but you haven’t caused me any trouble. Your leg should be okay in a few days, you just need to stay off it for now. The bandage should be changed in a few hours since it’s bloody, but you’ll have to wait for the next nurse on shift to do it since we don’t want to waste a decent bandage if we don’t have to.”

“You’re the opposite of trouble,” Jesusa says. “You’re the answer to my prayers, I’ve been begging for a roommate since I got here.” I take the opportunity to get back to my dustpan and the task awaiting me.

Having settled in, Gabbi’s curiosity awakens, “Jesusa, why do you have all those coquí drawings?”

“They’re from my grandkids; they love when I tell them stories about coquí, especially the original legend.”

Gabbi straightens up her back and pulls the blanket up to her neck, “What’s the legend of the coquí?”

Jesusa throws her hands up theatrically, “Ay dios mío, what are we teaching la diáspora these days?”

Finally finishing with the shards and dumping them into a trash bin nearby, my words drip of ice, “Not enough apparently.” Jesusa shoots me a glance: not a glare but certainly not a smile.

She continues, “Well then allow me to tell you.”

Jesusa inhales slowly and lowers her hands in unison. She pretends to open a large book and begins “Long ago, when Puerto Rico was known by her proper name of Borikén and the gods lived amongst us, there was a young Taíno warrior named Coquí. Every day he would
venture into the forests and hunt for his tribe — as the son of the chief it was his responsibility to provide for his people.”

Before continuing, Jesusa postures her hands ninety degrees from the ceiling and raises her eyebrows. “Little did he know that his bounties were the product not of his capabilities,” Jesusa wags an index finger, “but of magic. For there was a goddess called Atabey who had
become captivated by Coquí — by his care for his people, by his joyous nature when he would enter the forest. The goddess was light on her feet and quick with her mind, finding ways to assist Coquí without his knowledge — until she finally raised the courage to speak with him.”

Gabbi raises her hand straighter than a flagpole. “This isn’t school,” I tell her. “Ask away.”

“What sort of magic did Atabey use to help Coquí?” Gabbi asked.

Jesusa looks to me, as she is too deep in character to veer from the story. Recounting how Papi would tell the story, I say, “Atabey would multiply the fishes so Coquí would always catch them in his net.”

Jesusa nods in thanks to me and continues, “Taking the form of a maiden from another tribe, she greeted Coquí. He was taken by her immediately, finding the woman to be a warrior in her own right as they ran through the forests together daily. Atabey would guide him through different techniques of gathering food, of teaching his people, and he would find ways to dazzle her with the creations of his people. They soon became inseparable, leading other gods to take notice.”

Heeding my advice, Gabbi blurts out, “Who are the other gods?” Her hand is halfway raised and lowering.

I stifle a deep inhale and tell Gabbi, “Don’t worry, she’s getting to it.”

Jesusa’s arms spring out to form an “S” drawn from her fingertips and along her back. She scrunches her face and narrows her eyes. She snarls and says, “The storm-incarnate, Juracán, who was enamored with Atabey, could not believe she would give herself to a mortal. This weapon of the gods had fallen desperately in lust with Atabey, and refused to accept she chose Coquí as her partner. In his jealous rage, he swept Coquí from the world. Atabey searched across the earth for her beloved, calling his name for generations. When it came time for the gods to leave our realm, Atabey used the last of her power to create a frog that would call out the name of the man she loved most, in hopes that he would one day hear it and find her once again. Every night, as twilight covered the island, the frogs would sing out: Co-co-kee. Co-kee.”

Gabbi’s breath whisps inward at the croaking; then she claps quickly with her scratched arms, one set of fingers tapping in the other hand’s palm. As Jesusa bows in Gabbi’s direction, the orderly finally arrives with a heavy-duty trash bag and duct tape. This will have to do.

I take the items and send him on his way, then tell Jesusa and Gabbi, “This is going to be a makeshift window cover. It likely won’t hold, but should help through the rest of the night. As I’m walking toward the window, Jesusa’s gown becomes visible to me since she’s gone against
my usual instructions and hopped out of bed. “Get back in bed,” I say to her.

She reminds me, “I’m not going to have another stroke from a window breeze. I’ll help.”

Against these sorts of winds, I’m not turning her down. We each take an end of the trash bag to stretch against the window when the lights go out.

Gabbi’s tired voice speaks through the darkness, “Is this a power outage?”

I’m quick to say, “Even if it’s not, it’s still lights out for you two. You need rest.” Luckily no one in my ward is reliant on machines, but I need to finish up my rounds before posting up at the nursing station in case another ward needs assistance. I usher Jesusa back to bed and tell
them I’ll be checking in soon, hopefully while they’re both asleep.

As I’m walking out the door, Gabbi says, “Too bad the coquí don’t sing over the hurricane.”

Jesusa gives me a parting glance and says to me, not Gabbi, “Then we’ll have to do it for them in the meantime.” I leave the room to the parting sounds of a hap-hazard choir chirping: Co-co-kee. Co-kee. It isn’t long before the other patients in the ward hear Room 103’s song and begin to join in. There is a resounding frog song rushing through the hospital when the backup generator kicks in.

A few hours later, I’m performing silent rounds and checking on each of my patients. When I get to Room 103, it’s no surprise that I find Jesusa awake and staring off into the night. A night that is only available to her because the damned trash bag didn’t hold well enough — there’s a sizable hole allowing a draft in.

“Isabella,” Jesusa whispers. “I’m glad to see you.”

I tut in her direction, “You know you should be sleeping.”

She waves me closer and says, “I wanted to talk with you before your shift ends.”

I grin, “You could have waited till later, I have another night shift coming up.”

She grins back, “I’m old and just survived a stroke. I prefer to leave nothing to chance.” It’s not in me to turn down a woman with such vibrancy in the face of living, so I kneel down by her.

“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.

Jesusa scans me from the crown of my hair to my collarbone before she asks, “Are you fighting something?” Indignation must immediately cross my face, as she quickly says, “I feel this passion in you, I see it in how you treat patients. Anyone could sweep glass or cover a
window, but you do it instead of the orderlies.”

My shoulders relax a bit. “Well I want to make sure it’s done right,” I say.

“And why is that?” Jesusa asks.

I think for about a few seconds, running the pads of my thumbs along the nails of their respective hands. “I guess I want to be someone who makes things right.”

Jesusa studies me again and asks, “Then what do you think is wrong?”

My ward is out of supplies. The screwups at FEMA aren’t responding. The charge nurse is tired of my questions. There’s a broken teenager sleeping in the chair next to Jesusa. Only one is in my power to address, “I’m sorry for what I said about Gabbi earlier.”

A smile crosses Jesusa’s face, “Oh I know mija. But I doubt you’re mad at a child who doesn’t know a folktale.”

“I feel battered. This week alone, we’ve had both Irma and María. We have no clue what’s going on outside of this hospital. I became a nurse to make sure people can get back on their feet, but I’m not sure if I’m even standing on mine anymore.”

“You seem to be standing just fine to me. You’ve taken care of this whole ward alone today.”

“Then why don’t I feel like I’m standing? When I was little, during hurricanes, my dad used to tell us how lucky we were to live in a way that infuriates the gods. I used to believe it too. But when the winds hit again and the power goes out, or when I get someone like Gabbi
crying in the ward…I’m not so sure this is living.”

Jesusa holds out her hand towards mine and I take it like a liferaft. She clasps it tight and says, “The way you see it, everything’s a fight.”

I’m no longer agitated, but craving. “Is it not?” I ask.

“We all push back when we are put down, that’s true. Though those are just moments, a drop in the ocean of who we are.”

“Then who are we? If I’m not a fighter, then what am I?”

Jesusa laughs at me. Not in a condescending manner, but in the way a parent chuckles when their toddler cannot stop asking “Why?” Her laugh halts and her eyes sink into mine as an embrace, “Is it not obvious to you? When the coquí sing out night after night, when the lights string from patios across the streets on a weekday and the town gathers to dance, do you really not feel it?”

I shake my head and I’m only aware I’ve done it by her eyes’ changing depth in the dark.

“My mother would dance like she was giving praise for the chance to exist. Not to some god or even to her parents. She told me she had to thank the world itself for letting her have the chance to dance. That’s my spirit. It’s part of yours too. Even Gabbi’s.”

I smile at Gabbi curled up in the chair and say, “The girl who ran through a storm to check on her grandparents,” a bit of pride coming over me.

“Like the nurse cleaning glass and making trash bag windows before her. Don’t let a bit of doubt or struggle stop you from living that way. Mi reina, you’ll see. Once this island sings again, you’ll s—.”

Jesusa lips close and she sucks at her teeth.

“Are you okay?”

Jesusa doesn’t move her head when she starts to stutter.

“Jesusa?”

The left side of Jesusa’s face begins to slack and the hand she was holding mine with slacks. “No!” I shout. “Jesusa, stay with me!” She tries her best, but her body gives out on her and it falls into the pillows behind her.

My shouts wake Gabbi, who rubs her eyes to find me over Jesusa’s failing body.

The poor girl screams out, “No! Please, no!”

I look to her and say, “Watch her,” then bolt from the room. I scream through the hallway, awakening the entirety of the ward. “Doctor to 103, now!” There is no breath unused in my wailing. In that moment, against the hurricane, I am a force far greater.

Two doctors along with the charge nurse arrive with a gurney. Jesusa’s eyes have completely closed and she is limp, making it too easy to get her on the gurney and wheeled out. I am left with Gabbi in the room, who is once again sobbing, and I cannot help but think of her as
a teddy bear to comfort me as much as I should comfort her. I know I’m supposed to tell her something, that I’m supposed to use my brain to create words that would then leave my mouth. I can’t. So I just keep holding her. I hold her until she passes out from the work it takes to cry so deeply. I’m not even sure how long, but even when I let go it feels like it could never be enough.

I’m crouching below the sign for Room 103 when the charge nurse approaches me.

Immediately on my feet, I ask “How’s Jesusa? Is she okay?”

She reaches out her hand and I shiver a bit, but fall into her arm. “The doctors are with her now, we’ll know soon enough.”

I’m grateful to her but my impatience gets the better of me when I say, “I’ll wait for her at the nursing station.”

La Llorona simply would not accept my childish behavior on this of all nights. “Isabella, go rest. You’ve already worked a double shift and have a third coming later tonight. We’ll let you know about Jesusa next time you’re on duty.” Through the tears I nod, gently and wounded like
Gabbi had hours before. Shuffling off to the staff resting beds, I wonder if this is when I finally drown.

I shift against what I imagine is my arm on fire and find that I’ve slept sideways on it for who knows how long. My eyes have crusted over and my mouth feels dry. Yesterday is wreaking havoc on my body and I’m hesitant to step from the bed in case today will give me more of a
beating. However, I note the lack of wind howling as a somewhat positive sign. I barely stumble off the mattress and head into the bathroom to splash some water on my face. Reaching for the
faucet, I recall the water shortage and halt my hand. Instead, I look in the mirror to inspect my own face for the first time in over a day. Papi’s green eyes stare back at me. My face is clean
enough but my curls are unraveling with frizz. All things considered, it feels like I got off easy.

During the walk towards the front of the hospital, I try to gauge what I can expect in the upcoming evening shift. The hallway seems a bit brighter but the flickering of a few bulbs lets dreariness linger. It’s empty so the staff must be busy elsewhere. I walk half-heartedly towards an exit by the triage tents outside my ward and see the sun has taken to hiding behind the trees that remain.

In the face of the day’s open sky and lowering sun, I am terrified beyond what I once thought my limit. The winds are gone but all around me is the destruction they wrought. There’s tree bark strewn across every facet of the roads and grass. There’s the pastel roof of a home lying against a powerline. There’s gashes across the triage tents. All appears to be a dusk from first glance.

Despite what my eyes see, I can smell roast pork and it reminds me of the dinner from last Christmas with my family. I look towards the tents and see a row of tables set up alongside multiple vans. There’s a line wrapping around the tents, with people leaving an exact amount of
space to go through the entrances as needed, while others away from those parts of the line are holding each other. Some are laughing, some are coddling, some are consoling… across each of them I can sense one thing in common, but I’m not sure just what.

The charge nurse walks out from one of the tents close to the trucks and I wave toward her. She’s in a clean set of scrubs and her face is free of the wind’s wrath. She sees my hand and jogs over to me.

“Hey, have you,” I start, but I’m interrupted by the vines of her arms wrapping me tight.

“We made it through Isabella,” she says.

I let my own vines wrap her back, “I’m still not sure we have.”

She unfolds her arms from behind me and rests them on my shoulders, pushing us taut. “I assure you we have. Now go get some food and wash up, there’s enough in the tanks for a shower at least. Your next shift’s starting soon.”

I start to ask, “Wait, how’s-” but the charge nurse is already floating away. She’s disappearing into the hospital, likely off to a task I can’t take her away from.

My feet trudge to the line as it’s best to heed the charge nurse’s advice and eat. The line is made up of hospital staff, patients and their families, and what appear to be emergency relief workers in bright yellow vests. A person gets in line behind me and taps my shoulder. I spin around to see the orderly who helped me throughout the night. He’s less skittish than when the storm was raging.

“Any idea where this food is coming from?” he asks.

“I think it might be FEMA, they were supposed to be on their way,” I say.

A woman in a yellow vest who is helping keep the line moving comes over. “It’s actually a restaurant from the town over,” she tells us. “They propped up a kitchen once it was safe and are shipping meals where they can.” She waves us along.

A yell comes from inside the tents, “Patient coming through, clear the entrance!” Two orderlies walk out with a young man on a gurney who appears to have a bruise on his forehead, but otherwise looks healthy. Likely another falling incident like Gabbi’s. I should get a plate for
her.

Closer to the end of the line, my eyes finally recognize the pernil my tongue and nose sensed before. I wonder if mom will let me help in the kitchen this year. For the first time in my life, I actually look forward to fighting with her about it. I get distracted from my strategizing by
the beat of a drum running through my legs.

Off in the distance, along the road that’s littered with tree branches, I see a few people circled about. There’s a man in a yellow vest sitting on a rock in front of an overturned empty paint can, a few empty water containers, and a trash can. They’re held up with traffic cones and in his hands, two thin tree branches. In front of him, a nurse is stomping to the rhythm across the pavement like it’s made of lily pads while onlookers clap out the count.

“Hey Nurse,” I hear in front of me and get shaken from my viewing. “You still want a plate?” he asks.

“Yeah, sorry.” I say. “Can I actually get two? I’m taking one to a patient.”

He grins as he scoops a side of tostones to the paper plate with the pernil. “Of course, that’s what we’re here for.”

Then I hear it. It’s light, but it’s there. Across the wave of salsa steps, inside the calls for hungry to line up, beyond the doctors barking orders from the tents…

Borikén is singing out again — co-kee. Co-co-co-kee.

“Hey! Nurse Isabella!” I feel my name sent once again, from above, this time like a warm net made of cradling arms. I turn around to see Gabbi’s smile reflecting the fading light, through the empty space where window glass once was. She’s holding a picture up that I can’t quite make out. “One of the nurses gave me some paper and crayons!” Her voice is booming through the downed trees and ripped tents. “They said we should make some drawings —” My eyes go wide
and my jaw drops into a gasp. “— to hang up for Jesusa!” The singing is growing louder with Gabbi’s screaming smile. The paper she’s been holding up finally comes into focus, through a thin mist I’m just realizing has glazed over my irises.

Co-kee.