by Nick Courage
As a shelter, the cabana wasn’t much—just a thatched roof with stacks of scratchy white towels for the pool and cubbies for shoes and purses. But for Alejo, it was perfect. Even without walls, the cabana kept him dry…and from its smooth concrete floor, he had an unobstructed view of the camera crew. He wrapped himself in towels and crouched in a narrow crack between the cubbies, making himself as small as possible. Hiding from the wind. Leaning back into the shadows, Alejo smiled as he watched the reporter comb his hair between takes—unaware of the makeup running down his neck staining the collar of his button-down shirt.
“You get lost,” Alejo whispered.
He didn’t like the reporter or the crew very much, not after they had laughed at him. That they were broadcasting live from the San Juan Pilastro Resort and Casino made him like them even less. A small and irrational part of Alejo blamed the news crew for bringing the storm to the island, even though he knew that couldn’t be true, and he wished they’d just pile into their rented white vans and drive away.
Still, Alejo watched and waited, hungry for news of La Perla.
So far, the reporter wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know.
The wind picked up, blowing rain into the cabana, and Alejo stared longingly at the hotel. From the outside, he thought it looked like it was wrapped in Christmas lights. The Pilastro’s windows flickered, golden against the darkness, as the hotel guests followed the news from the safety of their beds.
They may have even seen Alejo, waving in the background.
Before he was shouted out of the frame.
After a while, Alejo’s legs started to cramp.
He tried to rearrange himself—to kneel on his knees, at least—but there was only enough room to squat. Through the tall glass windows, he watched his coworkers gather on the lobby’s spill-proof couches, eating their way through the refrigerator and following the news. The windows were fogged and it was hard to make out their faces through the rain, but Alejo thought they looked happy. He wanted to join them—to pretend that they were all as prepared as they thought they were—but there was something about the news crew that was keeping him outside in the rain.
Something that made his skin crawl.
He couldn’t put his finger on it.
“We’re advising everyone to stay off the roads while winds are high,” the reporter announced. He said the same thing every fifteen minutes, like clockwork, squinting at his reflection in the camera lens. “A severe wind advisory is in place, and as you can see, there’s rain and debris. But as of right now, Valerie is still just a tropical storm….”
Alejo thought he heard disappointment in the reporter’s voice.
The reporter wanted a hurricane, he realized, his chest pounding with sudden anger.
They all did.
Alejo could tell by the way they joked, their voices too loud with excitement. He could see it in the way the cameraman crept away to the beach between shots, trying to get footage of the biggest waves. For a split second, Alejo thought he might run into the shot again and yell at the reporter. “You don’t dance at the funeral,” he would say, pointing at the reporter and the cameraman and each of the crew members in turn.
Alejo took a deep breath, wondering if he should leave the Pilastro, too—if he should try to reach Padrino Nando before it was too late. A siren sounded in the distance, and then another. They pierced the night, then receded, racing through the storm. It’s still just a tropical storm, Alejo reminded himself. Too dangerous for him to get back to La Perla, but not dangerous enough for Nando to be in any real trouble.
Not yet, anyway.
Alejo leaned back into the crack between the cubbies, his back flat against the wood. For now, he would stay put, his ears pricked for the sound of the yellow truck rumbling into the parking lot. Nando would never evacuate La Perla, but he would come looking for Alejo. It wouldn’t be the first time. If Alejo closed his eyes, he could almost see him turning off the radio and hearing the howling wind outside.
Nando would come running once he realized Alejo never made it home.
That he was stranded at the Pilastro, alone in the storm.
Alejo pulled his cloak of towels tighter, feeling sorry for himself. If Padrino Nando had pulled up in his jangling truck right then, it would have been perfect timing. Like a movie. But all Alejo heard, for the tenth time that night, was the reporter shouting his sign-off into the roaring storm, the black waves crashing in the distance.
“Until then, we’re keeping an eye on the skies!”
“Go time,” the cameraman with the beard yelled.
“Swells are topping ten feet tall on the east side!”
From his hiding place, Alejo watched the reporter stalk wetly to the hotel lobby, mumbling about a drink, while the crew sprang into action. They wiped down their cameras and coiled their cables at a sprint, running the packed equipment to the two windowless passenger vans parked haphazardly on the Pilastro’s manicured lawn. They were so fast that Alejo almost wanted to warn the reporter. If he wasn’t quick about it, he might miss his ride, and the last thing Alejo needed was for him to be hanging around the Pilastro all night.
Alejo chewed the inside of his cheek.
As much as he wanted the reporter gone, he enjoyed feeling like he was one step ahead of Valerie—even if it meant squatting in the dark cabana in the rain—and he wasn’t sure what to do.
It wasn’t just that the news crew wanted a hurricane, he realized.
It was that they expected one.
Alejo’s heart beat double time in his chest.
And they were expecting it to be deadly.
By the time Alejo worked up the courage to approach the cameraman who had shouted at him, a lone spotlight was all that remained of the news crew. The bearded man stood beside it, checking the viewfinder of his camera as the rest of the crew waited impatiently in the vans. Alejo shielded his eyes as he walked toward the blinding light, still clutching his melted pints of vanilla ice cream.
“It’s the movie star,” the bearded man teased without looking up. He showed all his yellow teeth when he smiled, like a wolf. “Back for his sequel.”
Alejo shrugged and squinted past the light, the towels draped around his shoulders heavy with rain. Up close, the man’s scraggly beard barely covered his hollow cheeks. Like someone who lived in the woods, Alejo thought. He had black Velcro straps hanging all over him. Straps with all sorts of things attached.
“You’re a little young to work here,” the man said, checking the battery on his video camera. Distracted, he turned away—but Alejo followed him as he strode to the nearest van and threw the rear door open to reveal a bank of monitors, all glowing blue, all playing footage of the storm. Of the funeral, Alejo thought, watching the man unload the camera from his shoulder and rifle through a rucksack for a replacement battery.
“My padrino’s out there,” Alejo finally said. He pointed down the beach with one of the ice creams. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”
The cameraman gave Alejo an appraising look, as if he were seeing him for the first time. His eyes were as yellow as his teeth and Alejo wanted to look away, but he held out one of his melted pints instead.
The man grunted, then accepted it.
“Do you think we’ll be okay?” Alejo asked.
The man didn’t seem to have heard him over the rain.
Instead of an answer, he lifted the cardboard pint to his mouth, drinking the melted vanilla ice cream until it was gone. Before Alejo could repeat his question, the man crushed the container in his hand and tossed it into the empty pool. Alejo flinched. Just that morning, he had skimmed the surface of the pool with Padrino Nando, emptying the fallen leaves and waterlogged bugs into the compost piles behind the kitchen. Even though the sky was already overcast, the water had sparkled when they were finished.
/> It had been pristine.
“Where’s your friend?” the man asked, but he wasn’t looking at Alejo anymore.
He was distracted by the footage on the screens.
“La Perla,” Alejo said, deciding not to correct him. “By the water.”
“We’re all by the water,” the man said, gesturing absentmindedly at the resort and the adjoining sea. Just past the tennis courts, the waves that the cameraman thought were too small to film inched slowly up the beach, toward the Pilastro.
When Alejo didn’t respond, the cameraman looked at him one last time.
Even in the dark, with his face cast in shadow, Alejo could see his pupils dilate. Adjusting. And for a split second, the cameraman’s eyes softened. In that instant, Alejo thought he seemed even older than Padrino Nando. “Sugar rush,” the cameraman said, wiping the ice cream from his beard with the back of his arm.
He slid into the front seat of the van and slammed the door.
“My advice?” he said, rolling down the window to clear the fog.
“Stay inside.”
By the time Emily decided she should probably head home, even the birds were asleep, their beaks tucked beneath their wings for warmth.
Most of them, anyway.
A few whistled and murmured, clucking worriedly into their breasts as a pair of great horned owls hooted in the distance. Emily almost felt like the island itself was quietly fluttering—dreaming—as she scooted down the muddy banks into the murky black water, her phone and book held high above her head. It was easier getting off the island by the light of the heavy yellow moon, with nobody there to watch her except the sleeping birds.
Note to self, Emily thought, splashing into the darkness.
For next time.
The water filling her sneakers felt warmer at night, the air cool on her skin. Sure-footed, Emily waded quickly through the lagoon, her head tilted back to see the constellations overhead. The sky was deeper above the park, away from the lights of the city—it had layers. Grays and purples and blues. Passing clouds cast midnight shadows across Emily’s face as the stars twinkled and flashed in the rippling water, lighting her way to shore.
Until she screamed, it was the happiest she had felt in a long time.
Beneath the water, something sharp scraped against her knee, breaking the skin. A waterlogged branch half hidden beneath the lagoon. Emily had been so entranced by the stars that she’d walked straight into it, her legs tangling in the fingers of the submerged limb.
She grabbed it with her free hand, trying not to fall.
“Shoot,” she hissed. “Shoot, shoot, shoot.”
Three dark shadows splashed from the branch into the lagoon as Emily untangled herself. Turtles, just as startled as she was. Red-eared sliders. Only one of them held his ground, barely two feet away from Emily. He stared gloomily into the night while she cursed beneath her breath. As close as he was, Emily wouldn’t have been able to see him if it weren’t for the moon glancing off his shell. She stood watching the turtle for a long moment, distracted from her throbbing knee.
Somewhere in the darkness, the gibbons howled.
The turtle craned his neck toward the sound, blinking at Emily as if he had just noticed she was there. He twitched, preparing for his great escape, and Emily held her breath. Moving very slowly, she switched her phone and book to her left hand—then pivoted toward the turtle. She thought for sure he would slide into the lagoon before she got to him, but she surprised herself by scooping him up quickly—on instinct, as if she’d been sneaking up on turtles her entire life.
As she wedged the turtle into the crook of her arm, Emily tried to predict what Elliot’s reaction would be when she smuggled her new friend into his room. Once he saw what she’d been up to all day—once he was confronted with the scaly, crawling proof—he wouldn’t be able to believe his eyes.
Emily smiled as she pictured Elliot laughing.
Clutching his side, in stitches.
But happy.
At first the turtle struggled, scratching her arms with his tiny webbed claws while Emily splashed toward the shore, favoring her right leg. It was only when she reached land that he gave up and retreated into his mossy shell.
“It’s okay,” she said, hugging him tightly to her chest. “We’re gonna be okay.”
Safe on land and one turtle richer, Emily inspected her knee.
She was covered in duckweed: little slimy clovers, black against her skin. Beneath them, her legs were scraped and scabbed, old wounds from the morning and before. Emily gritted her teeth, but it wasn’t as bad as it felt. The cool air stung, but her knee was barely bleeding. As she stood dripping on the shore, the Canada goose with the funny wing shuffled out of the water, his big brown eyes blinking hopefully. “No,” Emily whispered, stumbling backward in her wet shoes. She held the turtle in front of her like a shield, but the goose waddled toward her anyway.
“Go home,” she said.
But there was no avoiding him.
The injured goose was so used to being fed and coddled by little children that he acted more like a pet than a wild bird. He rubbed against Emily’s bad leg, his feathers soft and warm against the night, then stepped on her foot and honked.
Huh, huh, hunk.
He sounded so mournful that Emily laughed. Now that she was back on the mainland, the park seemed a little more ominous, and it wasn’t so bad to have company. Without thinking, Emily reached to pat the goose’s head…and was surprised when he leaned into her hand. He wasn’t purring, she told herself.
She knew birds didn’t purr.
But he was almost purring.
“You can’t come with me,” she said. “Not all the way.”
The goose didn’t respond one way or the other. Instead, he wove between her legs, literally underfoot, as Emily limped beneath the buzzing streetlamps. They were an unlikely trio, she knew, and to top it off, her shoes squeaked. She’d left her socks on the little island, hanging like overripe fruit from a branch of what she now considered to be her oak tree. She would have thought it was funny, how loud her shoes were, if it weren’t for the rusty creak.
Someone swinging on the old wooden playground.
At midnight.
Who would be here so late? she wondered, her stomach clenching at the thought. She would have run home, but she’d have to pass the swings on her way…and with her knee, she wasn’t at her fastest. Instead, Emily stopped in her tracks, her ears pricked for danger.
Huh, the goose said, nipping lightly at her ankles.
A white-beaked coot whistled from the lagoon, joining the conversation.
“Shhh,” Emily said.
It was nothing she would have thought twice about during the day, but beneath the moon—alone, except for the goose and the turtle—the creaking swing was like something out of a horror movie.
She stayed frozen for one minute, then two.
Long enough for the goose to settle heavily on her feet, roosting for the night.
“It’s okay,” Emily whispered, more to herself than to her new friends.
Even whispering, her voice felt loud in her ears. Like it was echoing throughout the empty park. The goose didn’t seem to mind. He was happily murmuring to himself, already half-asleep, as the streetlights lining the bike path flickered overhead.
Emily peered into the night, waiting for the swing to creak again.
“Hey,” someone shouted, and Emily crouched down on top of the sleeping goose. He snuggled against her as she made herself as small as possible, her eyes adjusting to the hazy glow of the streetlamps. The swings were set apart from the rest of the playground and she couldn’t see them from where she was hiding, but the red cherries of two cigarettes floated atop the wooden castle by the twisty slide and people were laughing…or yelling.
From t
his far away, it was hard to tell which.
Emily frowned.
Either way, she didn’t want anything to do with them.
Her heart beat double time as Emily eased her feet out from beneath the goose and jumped away from the asphalt path. Into the darkness. She felt safer in the grass—invisible, like on the tiny island. I should have stayed, she thought as she tiptoed toward the empty avenue, moving slowly to minimize the squeaks.
I could have left in the morning, early.
Before anyone was even awake.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” Emily whispered, squeezing the turtle’s shell tightly against her side. Hugging it for comfort. As she inched her way through the grass toward the well-lit street, it dawned on her that she could only follow the shadows for so long. Beyond the twisted silhouettes of the trees lining the avenue, the city was bathed in an amber light so bright it drowned out the stars.
Once she left the park, she’d be out in the open for anyone to see.
A streetcar rumbled down the avenue, its wheels squealing as it rolled to a stop at an empty red light.
Nobody got off the streetcar and nobody got on.
Still safely in the shadows, Emily took her phone out of her pocket, holding her book over the screen to hide the glow. With a trembling thumb, she found her mom’s number and tried to imagine what she would say if Emily called her for help. If she’d yell or if she’d be more quiet-upset, whispering her disappointment as the television blared in the background. Emily’s finger hovered over the green call button…
Waiting.
She stayed like that—waiting—for so long that the turtle peeked his head out of his shell and the goose honked disapprovingly before he fell asleep, nipping at Emily’s shoelaces.
She felt like she was going to puke.
It wasn’t worth it to wake up her mother, she finally decided.
She took a deep breath and slipped her phone back into her pocket.
They’d have to go home sooner or later.
The little petrel didn’t yet realize he was separated from the rest of his flock. He only knew that he had found a pocket in the storm in which to glide, his long legs stretched out behind his white tufted rump. For a sea bird, the petrel was small. And young. It hadn’t been so very long since he had been an egg nestled in a rocky islet on the frigid coast of Antarctica. That was where he had fledged and learned to fly, feeding on whatever was careless enough to float beneath his yellow-tipped beak.