“It’s beautiful.” Rosita extends her open palm to catch a few snowflakes.

  I do the same, but instead of snow, a white feather lands between my fingers.

  “Look, they’re everywhere.” Rosita points to the floor of the balcony, where a handful of white feathers lie scattered.

  We search for the source but only find the almost-empty parking lot, and beyond that, an overgrown baseball field.

  No birds in sight, just their feathers, floating in the air like particles of dust.

  A woman waves at us from the room next door. Like us, she extends her hand to catch a floating feather.

  “I think they’re from the plant,” she says, looking out toward the highway. “Must be the wind.”

  I stare toward the plant, a bleak horizon, snow-covered and gray. I’ve never felt so far from home.

  Another feather falls from the sky and I catch it midair. The pristine white plume glimmers in the sunlight like something from the wings of an angel. I pray it’s a good omen—an ascension of sorts.

  “Come on, Rosita, let’s get dressed,” I say. “We can send Mami and Tía Milagros some pictures. They’ll like that.”

  We find the thickest sweaters we brought, but in this bitter cold the fabric feels flimsy and thin.

  “I think I saw a Salvation Army on the way in,” I say. “And a Walmart. Maybe we can call a taxi and get a few things?”

  “I don’t want to spend all our money on the first day,” Rosita says, snaking herself into a pair of leggings. “We don’t even know when we’ll get paid.”

  “What about the bathroom? It needs to be cleaned,” I argue.

  “I saw a cleaning cart parked on the stairway last night.”

  I sigh and resolve not to make a fuss. Rosita is right—we shouldn’t be spending money we don’t have. She sold her laptop and her road bike before we left, and I had the money I was saving for my trip. Still, it may not be enough.

  We head outside, bundled in our warmest clothes. We take the stairs to the lower level and join a group of other Puerto Ricans gathered outside the motel’s dining room.

  “Desayuno gratis,” an older man with white hair and bushy eyebrows says. He nods toward the dining room, where he says there’s free breakfast.

  “Anything good in there?” I ask.

  “Pancakes, eggs . . . it’s okay,” he says with a shrug. Something about the dignified way he carries himself reminds me of my late abuelo.

  “I’m Marisol.”

  “Arsenio.” He flashes a crooked smile and pats the side of my arm with his free hand. In his other hand, he holds a steaming mug of black coffee. “This American coffee is pure water. Aguao—like dirty water.”

  “There’s a Latin supermarket in town,” I say. “Maybe they have good coffee.”

  He sighs, looking up at the sky. Then he empties the cup in the snow, where it leaves a dark stain. “They won’t have Yaucono.”

  “Marisol, take my picture.” Rosita joins a group playing with the snow. She falls back, making a snow angel with her limbs.

  I snap her photo with my phone, then take one of the motel and the giant pheasant.

  “Let’s make a snowman,” she says, balling the snow in her gloved hands. A few turkey feathers stick out, turning the snowman into a snowbird.

  We dress him in my purple scarf and hat and Rosita’s sunglasses. A woman we just met offers to take our picture.

  Rosita and I squat next to the snow-bird-man and smile, holding up our hands in the air like we’re waving at everyone back home.

  I send the photos to Mami and text her that we arrived safely and we’re having fun. If I call her, she may not believe me. Mami is no bruja, but she does have some kind of mind-reading divine power that, as her daughter, I find terribly inconvenient. There’s no lying to that woman. If I call her now, her heart will burst with trepidation. And I can’t handle someone else’s heartbreak right now.

  At exactly one, we pile into the van and drive to the turkey processing plant—a sprawling white building in the middle of an open field. About half a dozen trucks are lined up to enter the side gate.

  “They bring in nineteen thousand turkeys a day,” shorts-guy says behind me. Today he’s wearing jeans, a proper winter coat, and a beanie hat with a Puerto Rican flag—subtle.

  “Nineteen thousand? That can’t be right,” a woman says.

  “My padrino works here. He says they bring them alive every morning. And then . . .” He makes a slicing motion with his index finger across his throat.

  I turn away from him and take a deep, long breath. I hate blood. I hate the sight of blood. I hate the smell of it too—that metallic pungent odor that sticks to the inside of your nostrils.

  “I’m not killing turkeys,” I whisper close to Rosita’s ear.

  “A machine kills them,” shorts-guy says over my shoulder. A hand appears next to my face. “I’m Mateo.”

  I hesitantly take his hand. It’s warm and soft, nothing like I expected.

  “Marisol,” I say. “And this is my cousin, Rosa.”

  “Where are you from, Mateo?” Rosita asks.

  “Aguadilla,” he says. “Used to give surf lessons to tourists.” When he smiles, his straight white teeth are a bright contrast to his brown, suntanned skin. If it weren’t for the ridiculous hat, he would almost look handsome.

  “And you guys?”

  “San Juan,” I say.

  “Ah, city girls,” he teases. “My uncle lives in San Juan. Well . . . used to, I guess. They moved to Florida a week ago.”

  “Everyone is moving,” Rosita says.

  “Los cerebros que se van y el corazón que se queda,” I add, remembering the title of an essay by Magaly García Ramis about the relocation of “brains” to the mainland. The brains may leave for a better life, but their hearts always remain on the island. Today I can understand what she meant.

  “That’s very poetic and all, but what are we supposed to do?” Mateo asks, his voice bitter. “If I had work, I would’ve stayed. I didn’t want to leave. There’s no surfing here. Who knows when the tourists will be back. And who knows when they’ll open the university. I’ll probably lose the entire year.”

  “Yeah, it’s the same thing in San Juan. No classes until further notice,” Rosita says.

  “I’m halfway through a graphic design degree. I was going to open my own store—Yuquiyú Surf Shop. I wanted to design and make my own boards,” he says, sitting a little taller.

  “That sounds nice,” Rosita says.

  “Yeah, but who knows what’ll happen now.” He sighs and leans back, staring out the window at the open field next to the turkey farm. There’s a feeling I recognize in his amber-colored eyes: longing. After María we all seem to want things we can’t have.

  Silly hat aside, I feel an affinity with Mateo. Maybe our dreams are in a comatose state and not stone dead like the turkeys.

  When we pull up to the plant, Elena is waiting for us by the front steps.

  “Welcome, amigos,” she says in a too-cheerful tone. “Did you sleep okay?”

  Everyone nods and smiles politely, eager to get inside. We all want to see what our new lives will be like—what we left the island for.

  Elena ushers us inside the plant and into a classroom with long tables and a projection screen. There are big binders on the table, one for each of us.

  I sit between Mateo and Rosita.

  After a brief introduction, Elena plays a video about safety at the plant. After the third example of an accident, I scan over the pages of the manual, searching for something to calm my nerves.

  The same information is written in three languages: English, Spanish, and what I guess is Chinese. I turn to the Spanish section, pausing when I reach a photo of a plucked headless turkey hanging from a metal rod.

  “My padrino says you’ll hurt for the first two weeks,” Mateo says softly. “But you get used to it.”

  “Used to what?” I ask.

  “The standing. The cold. The repetition. It’s not for everyone. It breaks some people.”

  I instinctively search for Esperanza, recalling that she wasn’t in the van that drove us from the motel.

  “Where’s Esperanza?”

  “She left,” Mateo says, matter-of-fact.

  “What do you mean she left?” I move in closer, trying to keep my voice low. “She just got here,” I say, staring into his dark-brown eyes. His cheeks turn a soft pink at the closeness of our bodies. I lean back, a little embarrassed.

  “Left for Puerto Rico this morning.”

  Elena clears her throat and gives us a disapproving look from the front of the classroom. I mouth an apology and wait a few minutes before turning again toward Mateo.

  “I didn’t know we could leave.”

  “God, they’re not holding us hostage, Marisol,” Rosita interjects. I had no idea she was even listening.

  I turn to Mateo for confirmation.

  “You can leave any time,” he says with a smile that reaches his eyes and makes my breath catch.

  My mind whirls. The words You can leave any time buzz inside my head like bees swarming over a beehive.

  I can leave this wintry, faraway place. I can go home.

  But go home to what? What kind of life will I go back to?

  After three hours of videos, talks, and a million questions, Elena announces that we’re done for the day.

  “Tomorrow will be your first shift,” she says. “The van will pick you up at five. Please don’t be late.”

  Mateo grunts behind me. “I wish they had a noon shift,” he says. “Who wants to get up at five in this cold?”

  “It’s colder in there,” a woman says, pointing to a conveyor belt behind a glass window. “They keep it at thirty-six degrees—year-round.”

  “I guess I won’t be taking this off,” Mateo says, zipping his jacket all the way up. “Got it at the Salvation Army this morning. Like it?”

  I nod, wishing I’d gone to the thrift store and found a thicker winter coat.

  “You’ll need a coat just to wear to work,” he says expertly. “You don’t want to bring the smell of turkey flesh home.”

  I tilt my head in confusion, wondering how Mateo went from being the shorts-guy to turkey-plant expert. “How do you know all this?”

  “I told you, my padrino works here. He got me the job.” He glances at my brand-new, cream-colored coat and says, “I hope you brought another one.”

  “Did you hear that, Rosita?” I ask pulling at the sleeve of her jacket. “We’ll have to walk around smelling like dead birds.”

  “Coats cost money, Marisol,” she says, pursing her lips like I’m a petulant child. “Do you want to call your mother if we run out of money before we get paid? Because I’m not making that call. I’ll be damned if I trekked all the way here to have money be sent to me from the island.”

  My hands ball into fists. I bite my lower lip so hard it may bleed. Deep in the hollow of my chest, I feel the pull of Esperanza’s sobs coaxing me to give up. To leave all this behind like a bad dream quickly forgotten in the morning.

  Poor Esperanza. She traveled all the way here for nothing. Is that what I want? To be that hopeless?

  “How much was that coat?” I ask Mateo, ignoring the scowl on Rosita’s face.

  “Twenty bucks. It’s a nice brand too.”

  I turn to face Rosita, feet planted firmly on the tile floor. “I’m going to the Salvation Army. I’ll use my money. I’ll go alone if I have to.”

  She releases an exasperated sigh. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not letting you wander around Huron by yourself.”

  “It closes at five,” Mateo says, glancing at a clock on the wall that reads 4:45 p.m.

  Rosita shrugs with an “oh well” expression that makes me want to pull my hair out. It’s that resignación everyone on the island keeps going on about. An unchallenged acceptance that leaves no room to fight back.

  “We’ll go to Walmart,” I say, refusing to give into this resignación. “They have coats, I’m sure.” And sheets and towels . . . and candles with names like Island Breeze or Tropical Punch—if they do, I’m buying one of each.

  The next morning, the alarm goes off at four. I open my eyes and see the picture of the duck-looking pheasant hanging from the wall. I decide to name him Paco—the duck-pheasant. A daily reminder that we can be two things at once.

  I wriggle myself into the new thermal underwear I bought last night. I had no idea this stuff even existed. A Walmart saleslady put the package in my hands and said in a Dominican accent, “Para trabajar en la planta, esto es lo mejor.” She had worked at the plant for three years, and these—long johns, she called them—had kept her warm the entire time.

  Over the long johns I wear a thick pair of pants, then two T-shirts, a sweater, and my new red coat. It’s so soft, it feels like a waste taking it to the plant.

  “Rosita, get up.” I give her a little shove and she moans awake. “I’ll go get us some breakfast. Get dressed.”

  I put on my boots and grab a can of Bustelo coffee I found at Walmart—the only Spanish coffee they had on the shelves.

  Outside, it’s snowing again. But today there’s no wind to carry the feathers. I walk downstairs to the dining area and find Don Arsenio tinkering with the coffee machine.

  “Buenos días,” I say, showing him the coffee can. That crooked smile takes over his entire face.

  “It’s Cuban, but it’ll do,” he says, winking at me. “I think I figured out where they keep the filters.” He looks around, making sure the motel staff are not watching.

  I spill the watered-down coffee in the sink. Don Arsenio finds a new coffee filter and together we make a fresh pot of Bustelo to share. We stand in front of the machine watching the dark coffee drip fill the glass carafe.

  “If I can’t drink Puerto Rican coffee, Cuban is a nice second choice,” he says.

  “Cuba y Puerto Rico son de un pájaro las dos alas,” I respond, quoting the Puerto Rican poet Lola Rodríguez de Tió.

  He pours the coffee into a to-go cup and puts it between my hands. Then, with his wrinkled palms still covering the back of my hands, he recites, “Otro aquí vengo a formar, y ya no podré olvidar, que el alma llena de anhelo, encuentra bajo este cielo aire y luz para cantar!”

  I get lost in the old man’s voice and cloudy eyes as he recites the verses from Rodríguez de Tió’s magnificent poem. He enunciates every verse perfectly in a melancholic voice that makes me feel like crying.

  “That’s beautiful,” I say after he’s finished.

  “She wrote that poem when she was exiled to Cuba,” he tells me. “She was banished, but she never forgot her patria. No one can take that from you.”

  I nod, smiling, and hand him a packet of sugar, which he pours into his cup.

  “Ahhh, buenísimo,” he says, savoring the first sip.

  I leave Don Arsenio and walk back to our room carrying a tray of coffee and waffles. Rosita and I eat our breakfast in front of the TV, watching an action movie about terrorists bringing down the White House.

  “There’s nothing else on,” Rosita says.

  “Doesn’t matter. We have to be downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  I drown my waffles in syrup and take a bite.

  “A little,” I say. “You?”

  “It’s cutting turkeys. How hard can it be?”

  After eating, we head downstairs to meet the others by the van. Mateo is already sitting inside.

  “Buenos días, señoritas,” he chirps.

  We smile and greet him back. Then the door to the van closes and the horizon speeds past. Now, moving in the direction of my future, my stomach is not having it.

  “Are you okay?” Rosita asks. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, leaning my head against the cold glass of the passenger window. I take slow, easy breaths until some of the churning inside me subsides.

  I watch the lights of the plant draw closer. In no time, the driver is parking and we are all filing toward the entrance, where Elena’s familiar face is there to greet us.

  “I will call your name and these lovely people will direct you to your stations,” she says, motioning to a group of workers behind her.

  Rosita and I wait our turn in the back until we finally hear our names.

  “You will start in the deboning room,” she explains briefly.

  I’m about to ask her if there will be blood, but someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to find Mateo.

  “Remember you will hurt today. But tomorrow will get better,” he says, smiling.

  I stare at him, wanting to ask him how much more hurt one person can bear. But before I can speak, Rosita grabs my hand and pulls me away.

  “Come on, Marisol, we can’t get left behind,” she says, following a short woman with dark skin through a long corridor.

  I glance over my shoulder to see Mateo’s smile disappear behind two folding doors.

  “My name is Sabina,” the woman says, speaking with an accent I don’t recognize. “I’m here to train you. First, rubber boots.”

  We stop by a table where an older Asian woman measures our feet with a ruler and finds a pair of black rubber boots in each of our sizes.

  She pushes a white marker into my hand and says, “Name. Here.”

  I take the boots and the marker and stare at her blankly

  “Write your name on the boots,” Sabina explains.

  I do as I’m told and write MARISOL in white marker on the black rubber. I don’t exactly own the boots, but it’s nice to have my name on something new. These rubber boots will carry me through the first days of my new life. I draw a palm tree next to my name, the long trunk slightly bent as a reminder that it will not break.