The boy on the ground looks around to see who witnessed his humiliation. When his eye catches mine, I wave him closer.

  Slowly, he walks toward me. He has dark brown skin and raven-wing hair that catches the sun. The mask he’s wearing has the Green Lantern symbol on it. He clutches his torn comic book.

  Impulsively I pull one of the G2 postcards from Abuela’s magazine and root around for the pencil she was using to do the word searches. I flip the postcard to its empty side, and with quick, economical strokes, I begin to sketch the boy.

  The summer between high school and college, I spent a month in Halifax, doing portraits of tourists in the Old City. I made enough money to stay at a hostel with my friends, and to spend the nights in bars. It was, I realize, the last time I traded in art of my own creation. After that, I spent every holiday building up my résumé for the internship slot at Sotheby’s.

  Every artist has a starting point, and mine was always the eyes. If I could capture those, the rest would fall into place. So I look for the dots of light on his pupils; I draw in the flutter of lashes and straight slants of brow. After a moment, I pull at the strap of my mask, so that it swings free of my face, and then motion to him to do the same.

  He’s missing his front four teeth, so of course I draw that smile. And because confidence is a superpower, I give him a cape, like the hero in his torn comic book.

  What feels rusty at first begins to flow. When I’m done, I pass the postcard to him, a mirror made of art.

  Delighted, he runs the length of the tent, thrusting it toward a woman who must be his mother. I see some of the boys who’d been bullying him drift over, looking at what’s in his hands.

  I sit down, satisfied, and lean back in the lawn chair.

  A moment later the boy returns. He is holding a fruit I’ve never seen before, the size of my fist, and armored with tiny spikes. Shyly, he sets it on the table in front of me and nods a thank-you, before darting back to his mother’s table.

  I scan the tent, searching for Abuela, and suddenly hear a small voice. “Hola.”

  The girl in front of me is thin as a bean, with dusty bare feet and braids in her hair. She holds out a dimpled green Galápagos orange.

  “Oh,” I say. “I don’t have anything to trade.”

  She frowns, then pulls another postcard from Abuela’s magazine. She holds it out to me, and tosses her braids over her shoulders, striking a pose.

  Maybe I do.

  When Abuela and I leave the feria two hours later, I am no richer in cash, but I have a straw sunhat, a pair of athletic shorts, and flip-flops. Abuela cooks me lunch: lamb chops, blue potatoes, and mint jelly that I received in return for my portraits. Dessert is the spiny fruit the boy gave me: guanábana.

  Afterward, belly full, I leave Abuela’s so I can take a nap at home.

  It is the first time, in my own mind, I’ve called it that.

  To: DOToole@gmail.com

  From: FColson@nyp.org

  It’s crazy—everything’s been shut down. There are no flights out, and none in, and no one knows when that’s gonna change. It’s probably safer that way. Even if you could fly into the U.S., it’s a shit-show. You’d probably have to quarantine somewhere for a couple of weeks, because we don’t even have enough Covid tests right now for the people who are coming into the hospital with symptoms.

  The truth is that even if you were home, I wouldn’t be. Most of the residents who have families are staying at hotels, so they don’t infect anyone accidentally. Even though I’m alone in the apartment, after I peel off my scrubs in the entry and stuff them in a laundry bag, the first thing I do is shower until my skin hurts.

  You know Mrs. Riccio, in 3C? When I came home last night, I saw people I didn’t recognize going in and out of her apartment. She died of Covid. The last interaction I had with her was five days ago, in the mailroom. She was a home health aide and she was terrified of catching it. The last thing I said to her was, Be careful out there.

  One of my patients—she was extubated successfully but was in multiorgan failure and I knew she wasn’t going to last the day—had a brief moment of consciousness when I went in to see her. I was in full PPE and she couldn’t see my face well so she thought I was her son. She grabbed my hand and told me how proud she was of me. She asked if I’d hug her goodbye. And I did.

  She was alone in her room and she was going to die that way. I was crying under my face shield and I thought: Well, if I catch it I catch it.

  I know I took an oath. Do no harm and all that. But I don’t remember saying I’d kill myself to do it.

  Once we saw a movie, I don’t remember the name, where there was a WWI soldier who was all of twenty, in a trench with a new recruit who was eighteen. The bullets were all around and the twenty-year-old was calmly smoking while the younger kid shook like a leaf. He asked, How can you not be scared? The older soldier said: You don’t have to be afraid of dying, when you’re already dead.

  Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, I figure.

  I read that the Empire State Building will be lit up red and white this week for healthcare workers. We don’t give a fuck about the Empire State Building, or about people banging pots and pans at 7 P.M. Most of us won’t ever see or hear it, because we’re in the hospital trying to save people who can’t be saved. What we want is for everyone to just wear a mask. But then there are people who say that requiring a mask is a gross infringement of their bodily rights. I don’t know how to make it any more clear: you don’t have any bodily rights when you’re dead.

  I’m sorry. You don’t need to listen to me vent. But then again, this probably isn’t even getting through to you.

  Just in case it is: your mom’s place keeps calling.

  * * *

  —

  A few days later, while Beatriz is occupied making tortillas with her grandmother, I ask to borrow Abuela’s phone to leave another message for Finn. Gabriel has taught me how to dial direct internationally, but calls are expensive, and I don’t want Abuela to incur the costs, so I keep the conversation brief—just letting Finn know I’m all right, and I’m thinking of him. I save everything else for the postcards Beatriz mails.

  Then I call my mother’s memory care facility. Although I haven’t received any emails or voicemail from them, that may be a function of the internet here, since Finn said they’ve left messages on our landline at the apartment. The last time The Greens reached out so doggedly, there was a glitch in the direct deposit that paid my mother’s monthly room and board. The administration was all over it like white on rice, until I smoothed out the mistake and their money came through the wire. It will not be easy to sort out another bank error from a quarantined island.

  I dial the number and a receptionist answers. “This is Diana O’Toole,” I say. “Hannah O’Toole’s daughter. You’ve been trying to reach me?”

  “Hold please,” I hear.

  “Ms. O’Toole?” A new voice speaks a moment later. “This is Janice Fleisch, the director here—I’m glad you finally called back.”

  It feels pejorative, and I try not to get my hackles raised.

  I look over at the counter, where Abuela is showing a recalcitrant Beatriz how to knead lard into flour to make dough. Curling the phone line around me, I turn, hunching my shoulders for privacy. “Is there a problem with my account? Because I’m not in New York at the—”

  “No, no. Everything’s fine there. It’s just that…we’ve had an outbreak of Covid at our facility, and your mother is ill.”

  Everything inside me stills. My mother has been sick before, but it’s never merited a call.

  “Is she…does she need to go to the hospital?” Were they calling to get my permission?

  “Your mother has a DNR,” she reminds me, a delicate way of saying that no matter how bad it gets, she won’t be given CPR or taken to the hospital for life-sustaining measures. “We have multiple residents who’ve contracted the virus, but I assure you we’re doing everything we can to keep them comfortable. In the spirit of transparency we felt that you—”

  “Can I see her?” I don’t know what I could possibly do from here; but something tells me that if my mother is really, really sick, I will know by looking at her.

  I think of Mrs. Riccio, in apartment 3C.

  “We’re not allowing visitors right now.”

  At that, a crazy laugh breaks out of me. As if I could even come. “I’m stuck, outside the country,” I explain. “I barely have any phone service. There has to be something you can do. Please.”

  There’s a muffled sound, an exchange of words I can’t hear. “If you call back this number, we’ll get one of our aides to FaceTime with you,” I hear, and I fumble around for a pen. Abuela has a marker attached to a whiteboard on her fridge; I grab it and write the digits down on the back of my hand.

  When I hang up, my hand is shaking. I know that people who catch this virus do not always die. I also know that many do.

  If my mother sees me on video, she might not even recognize me. She could get agitated, just by being forced to talk to someone she can’t place.

  But I also know I need to see her with my own eyes.

  I am so focused on this, I forget I am in a place that lacks the technology to make this possible.

  I hang up Abuela’s phone and punch the new number into my cell, but there isn’t a signal. “Dammit,” I snap, and Abuela and Beatriz both look up. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, and I dart out to the porch, holding my phone up in various directions as if I could attract connectivity like a magnet.

  Nothing.

  I smack my phone down beside me and press the heels of my hands to my eyes.

  She has been an absent mother, and now I am an absent daughter. Is that quid pro quo? Do you owe someone only the care they provided for you? Or does believing that make you as culpable as they were?

  If she dies, and I’m not there…

  Well.

  Then you won’t be responsible for her anymore.

  The thought, shameful and insidious, vibrates in my mind.

  “Diana.”

  I look up to find Gabriel standing in front of me, holding a hammer. Has he been here the whole time? “My mother’s sick,” I blurt out.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “She has Covid.”

  He takes a step back involuntarily, and rubs his free hand across the nape of his neck.

  “She’s in an assisted living facility and I’m supposed to video-chat but my stupid phone still won’t work here and—” I swipe at my eyes, frustrated and embarrassed. “This sucks. This just sucks.”

  “Try mine,” he suggests. He pulls out his own phone, but it’s not the device that’s the problem. It’s this whole damn island. While the local cellular network seems to function, anything that requires any real bandwidth is a complete loss.

  Gabriel types something into his phone and then says, “Come with me.” I fall into place beside him, but he is walking so fast I have to jog to keep up. He stops at the hotel I was supposed to stay at. Although I’ve tried to steal its Wi-Fi, as Beatriz suggested, the network hasn’t shown up—likely because the business is shuttered. This time, however, Elena is standing outside the door, waiting with a ring of keys. “Elena,” Gabriel says. “Gracias por venir aquí.”

  She dimples, combing her hands over the long tail of her braid. “Cualquier cosa por ti, papi,” she says.

  I lean closer and murmur, “Do I want to know—”

  “Nope,” Gabriel cuts me off just as Elena loops her arm through his and presses herself up against him. She glances over her shoulder at me and whips her head back to Gabriel so fast her braid smacks against my arm.

  Is a hotel with no guests even a hotel? The lobby feels small and stale, until Elena turns on the lights and an overhead fan. She boots up a modem behind the front desk, chattering to Gabriel in Spanish as we wait. She seems to be talking about her tan or a bra or something because she pulls aside the fabric and peers down at her bare shoulder, then sends a blistering smile toward him.

  “Um,” I say. “Is it ready?”

  She glances at me like she’s forgotten I’m here. When she nods, I find the network on my phone. I dial the memory care facility number I was given and wander off into a small room filled with tables, each wearing a bright cotton tablecloth.

  When a face swims into view on my screen, I blink. The person on the other end is nothing more than a set of eyes above a mask, and that’s behind a plastic face shield. She has a paper cap covering her hair, too. “It’s Verna,” the woman says, and she gives a little wave. I recognize her name; she is one of the aides who takes care of the residents there. “We were starting to wonder if you were ever going to call back.”

  “Technical difficulties,” I say.

  “Well, your mom’s tired and she has a fever, but she’s holding her own.”

  She holds up whatever device she’s on and the view changes; from a distance I see my mother sitting on her couch with the television on, just like normal. My heart, which was racing, slows a little.

  I let myself wonder, for the first time, what I was so afraid to see. Maybe vulnerability. My mother has been a gale force wind that blows in and out of my life before I can reorient myself. If she were still and silent in a bed, then I would know something is terribly wrong.

  “Hi, Hannah,” the aide says. “Can you look over here! Can you give me a little wave?”

  My mother turns. She doesn’t wave. “Did you take my camera?” she accuses.

  “We’ll find it later,” Verna soothes, although I know my mother does not have a camera in her residence. “I have your daughter here. Can you say hello?”

  “No time. We need to jump on the press convoy to the Kurdish village,” my mother says. “If it leaves without us…” She coughs. “Without…” She dissolves into a fit of coughing, and the phone tumbles dizzily before coming to rest on a flat surface. The image goes black; I can still hear my mother hacking away. Then Verna’s masked face reappears. “I have to settle her,” she says, “but we’re taking good care of her. Don’t you worry.”

  The line goes dead.

  I stare at the blank screen. There really isn’t any way to tell if my mother’s delirious, or if it is just her dementia.

  Okay. Well. If she gets worse, they will call our apartment again. And if that happens, Finn will—somehow—update me.

  Finn.

  Immediately I try to video-chat him, too, making the most of the internet service. But it rings and rings and he doesn’t pick up. I imagine him bent over a patient, feeling the buzzing in his pocket, unable to answer.

  My mother has Covid, I type into a text. So far she’s stable.

  I tried to call you while I still had Wi-Fi but you were probably working.

  I wish you were here with me.

  I tuck my phone into my pocket and make my way back to the front desk. Everything about Elena’s body language suggests she is trying to pin Gabriel against any wall she can. Everything about Gabriel’s body language resists it. When he sees me, relief washes over his features. “Gracias, Elena,” he says. He leans in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, but she turns at the last minute and presses her mouth against his.

  “Hasta luego, Gabriel,” she says.

  As soon as we are out the door, he turns to me. “Your mother?”

  “She’s sick,” I tell him. “She has a cough.”

  His brows pinch together, then smooth. “So, that’s not too bad, right? I bet she was happy to see you.”

  She had no idea who I was. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but instead I ask, “Is Elena your ex?”

  “Elena was one night of extremely poor decision making,” Gabriel says. “I don’t have very good luck with relationships.”

  “Well, I’m ninety-nine percent sure my boyfriend was going to propose to me here on our vacation, so there’s that.”

  He winces. “You win.”

  “More like both of us lose,” I correct.

  Gabriel misses the turn to Abuela’s, heading further into town toward the docks.

  I say, “Far be it from me to tell you you’re going the wrong way, but…”

  “I know. I just thought…maybe you didn’t want to spend today worrying about your mother.” We stop on the pier, near a string of small pangas, the little metal boats fishermen use.

  “What about Beatriz?”

  “I already texted her. My grandmother is watching her.” He shields his eyes, looking up at me. “I did promise I’d show you my island.” He steps into a boat and holds out his hand so I can follow.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The lava túneles,” Gabriel says. “They’re on the western side of the island, about forty-five minutes out.”

  “We’ll break curfew.”

  He scrabbles for a key under the plank seat and turns over the engine. Then he glances up, one side of his mouth quirked. “That’s not all. Where we’re going is closed even to locals,” he says. “What is it you americanos say? Go big or go home.”

  I laugh. But I think: I wish.

  * * *

  —

  Fishing, Gabriel tells me, is dangerous here.

  He expertly moves the panga he has borrowed from a friend beneath delicate lava arches formed by volcanoes. We weave through the formations like thread through needles, the tide edging us precipitously close to the narrow walls of rock. Columns rise from the water, capped by land bridges with cacti and scrub growing over them. For some, the connector has already crumbled into the sea.

  “Fishermen can catch bluefin tuna, blanquillo, cod, swordfish. But I had friends who headed out, and never came back,” he says. “Riptides…they’re unpredictable. If your engine fails for some reason, you can get caught in one that moves three meters per second.”