Izabel walked to the salon to get a pedicure. She sat in a row of women high in massage chairs, across from another row of women low at their feet. Usually the salon had the news on, but today they had found a collection of old music videos to put on. Smart, Izabel thought. But then, Childish Gambino’s “This Is America” came on. He shot the choir and went back to dancing. Everything reminded Izabel of her proximity to death.

She reminded herself that Kaito let Cami go to school, too. She imagined what he would say. Home isn’t any safer than school. That was right. And Cami loved school. Izabel tried to stop worrying. She opened her app, tapped on 2017 again. Five-year-old Izabel. Kindergarten Izabel. She remembered a picture her mother kept from Izabel’s first day of school—she was standing on a tree stump at the bus stop.

She tapped on About the Air:

Code orange. Code red. What goes through your mind when you hear those words? Are we talking about a fire, a federal emergency, or a medical evacuation?

No, no and NO.

For the young, the elderly and those who have difficulty breathing, or for those who have heart conditions, these words mean bad news when it comes to the air we breathe. When a code orange day is announced, it means that the air quality exceeds U.S. Environmental Protection Agency pollution limits. The air is unhealthy to breathe for sensitive groups of people.

A code red day means that the air is unhealthy for everyone.

How many coded color alerts do we need? The answer is simple: NONE.

We can’t afford to let pollution standards slip because we will get more code red air quality days that impact everyone’s right to breathe clean air. Our state and federal legislators need a wake-up call. . . .

Izabel knew the pollution would have done them in if the trees hadn’t. Another possible future. God, how surprised all the environmentalists must have been. Someone must have laughed about it.

The nail technician grabbed Izabel’s shoes and walked her over to where she could dry her nails. “Thank you,” Izabel said, sitting down.

She unwrapped a candy from a dish of candies and imagined her mother getting that email, not knowing what was coming. Izabel hadn’t signed up for any local emails when she got to college, when she was supposed to be crafting her adult life. She ignored everything she could.

She knew her mother would tell her it was okay. “You gotta watch out for yourself in the way that works for you. I do that.”

“I’m a selfish person,” she said to her mother, countless times.

“That’s survival. That’s in your genes,” her mother always said back.