I try to speak slowly and clearly, and I struggle to remember all the right words in English. “Jesus,” the doctor says, “you really been through it, haven’t ya?” I nod. He tells me about San Pedro Sula and the other parts of Honduras that he has seen: towns under water, thousands of people waiting on the roads to be rescued, and the horrible damage across the whole country. He tells me about the shelters overflowing with people, so many of them homeless, and about some children stuck on a rooftop for three days and nights after their parents were lost in the flood. He says, “People in La Ceiba are fishing from their front porches, catching fish and crawdads from what used to be the streets.” “La Ceiba!” I gasp. “Yes. You have people there?” I take a deep breath and explain, “My dad and my older brother, Víctor, and my sister haven’t come back from there yet.” And now I start rambling, saying crazy-sounding stuff, one stupid thing after another: I talk about Víctor tearing down the barbecue, about Ruby and her modeling portfolio, about my dad and his truck, and about Berti being lost.
