The Aftermath

The silence woke me up.

For six hours, the wind had sounded like a freight train screaming past the window, rattling the wooden shutters until I thought they would splinter. Now, there was nothing but the heavy, rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water falling from the eaves.

I opened my eyes. The room was gray, lit only by the weak morning light filtering through the cracks.

My neck was stiff. I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the faded floral sofa.

And there was a weight on my shoulder.

Max.

He was asleep, his head resting on my shoulder, his long legs stretched out across the tile floor. In the gray light, stripped of the linen blazer and the "Architect" persona, he looked younger. He looked exhausted.

I didn't move. I let myself have this one minute.

I breathed in the scent of him—damp cotton, sandalwood soap, and the faint, sweet smell of the rum we had shared.

Then, reality kicked in.

The shop.

I sat up, gently shifting Max’s head to the sofa cushion. He groaned, his brow furrowing, but didn't wake.

I stood up, my muscles aching. I unlocked the front door and stepped out into the hallway. It smelled of wet concrete and bleach.

I ran down the stairs to the street level.

I pushed the heavy building door open.

The glare of the sun hit me first. The storm had scrubbed the sky clean; it was a blinding, innocent blue.

But the street...

Ay, Dios.

Calle Sanchez was a river of mud. The water had receded, but it had left behind a thick, brown sludge coating everything. Palm fronds, trash, and a piece of tin roofing were scattered across the cobblestones.

I waded through the mud toward the shop. It was ankle-deep, sucking at my sneakers.

I reached the metal shutter. The sandbags Max had piled up were soaked, slumped against the metal like dead bodies.

"Please," I whispered, fumbling with my keys. "Please be dry."

I unlocked the padlock and heaved the shutter up. It shrieked in protest.

I peered inside.

It was dark—the power was out, of course.

I stepped in. The floor near the door was wet, a puddle spreading about three feet inward. But the sandbags had held the worst of it back.

I ran to the back. The digital printers, sitting high on the worktables where we had moved them, were dry. The paper stock was dry.

I let out a sob—a sound that was half-laugh, half-cry. I leaned against the counter, covering my face. We had survived.

"It looks okay."

I spun around.

Max was standing in the doorway. He was rubbing his eyes, his hair standing up in every direction. He was barefoot, holding his muddy shoes in one hand.

"It's dry," I said, my voice trembling. "The machines are safe."

Max smiled. It was a slow, tired smile that reached his eyes.

"Good job on the sandbags, Jefa," he said.

"Hey! Vecinos!"

We both looked up.

Doña Carmen was hanging off her balcony on the third floor.

"Don't just stand there staring at each other!" she yelled down, pointing a wooden spoon at us. "The drain on the corner is clogged! The street is a lake! We need muscle!"

She looked directly at Max.

"You! Gringo! You have big arms. Use them!"

Max looked at me. He looked at his ruined linen trousers. He looked at the mud.

In Jersey, he would call a contractor. He would call the city. He would wait inside the AC.

Max dropped his shoes on the dry floor of my shop. He rolled up his sleeves.

"Do you have a shovel?" he asked me.