Back on my little street, I get a text from Juleen: have I checked social media? No, and I don’t want to; I know I won’t find anything good. The island I can see for myself is upsetting enough. The army truck is blocking the entrance to my house, which exasperates me. I stop in the middle of the road, soaked with sweat, and answer.

VB: What’s up, Jules?

JB: The blockade downtown, yo deh, mamita? Where are you?

VB: I’m just getting home. Wait what blockade?

JB: Come to the corner of 20 de Julio and Américas…

VB: I want to finish reading the article that came out about building licenses, Jules, tell me what’s going on?

JB: Get over here now, Victoria gyal! Move de baty!

She texts me a photo: a group of old men in turbans have blocked the main crossing and another several are sitting under tents. One holds a megaphone and seems to be shouting.

VB: Mi foc! OK, I’ll head over.

Maybe it’ll be good for me to visit the centre again, maybe something will happen to settle our insular fate. As I store my bike on the terrace, I hear the gate clank across the street. A man in a blue uniform and very dark sunglasses smiles at me; I wave and go into the house in search of my glucometer case. The new sensor is in the closet. I’ve got two left and had better order another before it’s too late. Which happened two months ago: all shipments from the mainland to San Andrés were suspended for a few days, no companies were sending anything out, so I had to be an old-school diabetic for two weeks before things got back to normal. The whole situation was caused by a cocaine shipment alert. No more sea outlets.

I shower quickly even though I imagine that the blockade, if it’s as serious as it looks, won’t be going anywhere. I put on some jeans, white trainers and a t-shirt that says Revolution Begins Inside. I brush my teeth and open the sensor kit, assemble the see-through applicator inside, and press it against my right shoulder. I feel the sting of the little needle; the click tells me it’s firmly in place. I wave the monitor to activate the sensor. It’ll be twelve hours until I can use the glucometer again. I’ll live. I wash my hands and prick myself, this time on my ring finger: one hundred and rising. I hurry up. I inject myself with six units of insulin, I’d better eat something, I make a smoothie that amounts to four rations of carbs, I take some of yesterday’s rice from the fridge, chew quickly, and fill a bag with nuts and fruit, pack another energy drink.