It’s no surprise that between the two of us, Parisa is the planner. She’s the one who loves to make to-do lists, pros and cons lists, five-year plans, and whatever else helps make her brain feel more efficient and organized. But it’s served her well in life, so I’ve decided to follow her lead. Tonight, I took a page from her handbook and asked one of the orderlies to bring me a pen and pad of paper to help me map out the rest of my life. On the top of the page, I write, in all caps: MEXICO CITY BUDGET.

I’m going to spend the remainder of my hospital stay researching the cost of living in Mexico for a year, and then do the math to figure out how many hours I’ll need to pick up in shifts at Lunardi’s to save enough money for the move. I thought about looking for a new job, but I’m just a few weeks shy of getting health benefits, and I can’t afford to start over somewhere else. After I get the logistics squared away, I’m going to brainstorm how to convince my moms that, even though we don’t have a lot of money, I am still allowed to be someone who breaks with convention. I can still be impulsive. I can have a big life without enrolling in a four-year college right away. The numbers tell me that if I can pile on double shifts and work holidays, I could be roaming the streets of Condesa by next year.

“How’s the infamous chicken parm?” a voice asks. I look up to see a nurse walk in. She’s attended to me almost every day of my hospital stint, but we’ve never had a conversation.

“I know,” she continues, before I can even respond. “It’s practically inedible. I brought you a chocolate chip cookie. I thought it might be a good palate cleanser.”

“Thanks,” I say. It takes all my willpower not to devour the cookie in front of her. Right now there is no better scent than the mingling of sugar, chocolate, and baked dough.

“I heard you’re going home tomorrow,” the nurse says as she updates the whiteboard on my wall with my last dose of medicine. “Congratulations, Gabriela.”

Now that I’ve heard her speak in full sentences, the sound of her voice doesn’t exactly match her face. She has the trace of an accent or a lisp, but I can’t exactly place it. When she says my name, she effortlessly rolls her r’s. Something tells me, if she had struck up a conversation days ago, we would have hit it off—and that’s probably why she’s all but ignored me.