“Neda, I love you,” I yell. “Please. You have to forgive me. I’m your sister.”

A year ago, the word “sister” had no meaning for either one of us. It may as well have translated to “acquaintance” or “strange human that grew up in the same house as you.” Now it means something very different. Sister. Constant companion, soul mate, the person who knows you better than you know yourself.

“EXACTLY” is all I hear her yell back through her tears.

GABRIELA

When I’m bagging groceries at Lunardi’s, I prefer the customers who barely manage a hello as they glance at their phones in the checkout line. Sure, they make no effort to acknowledge that I’ve put my life on the line so that they can keep their cupboards full of gluten-free handmade pasta, but at least they’re generally cordial. The customers I can’t stand are the ones who tap their fingers and impatiently stare at me while I nervously try to pack away their carton of eggs without incident. Right now, that customer presents himself in the form of a middle-aged man, with a receding hairline and a dad bod. He turns to his young son and loudly declares that they should have stood in the self-checkout line. I give Angie an apologetic look, but she waves me off.

“Take your time,” she whispers. “You’re doing great. Plus, we get to go home soon.”

After seventeen torturous days in the ICU, the doctors informed me that, despite my miraculous recovery, I might experience some long-term side effects from the virus. And none of them could provide an answer on how long said side effects would linger. So far, it’s been a week, and the fatigue would make Eeyore seem hyperactive next to me. Dad bod isn’t even the first customer today who’s griped that I’m not moving quickly enough, but I try not to crumble from the complaints and instead stay focused on how badly I need the paychecks. My moms tried to talk me out of coming back to work, but I refused to listen. I need to save enough money if I want to make my escape, south of the border, by next year.

Hopefully, by Christmas, there will be a light at the end of this long and claustrophobic tunnel we’ve been living in. Vaccines will be widely distributed, and air travel will be safe again. And I, like the rest of the kids at my high school, can live a big life. Mexico City has always felt like a bolder choice than moving to Paris or Rome or Barcelona. (Not to mention a more affordable option.) I am counting the days till I get to be a member of its thriving art scene.