Page 16 of The Risks of Reuniting

This is all wrong. All of it. Every day, it's wrong. We need to talk, and soon.

Rachelle keeps up a light stream of friendly chitchat as we walk, but I don't hear anything above a ringing sound that's started in my ears. Cesar is trailing us, also keeping up a stream of chatter in Spanish, and I give up trying to make sense of any of it. It's hopeless. All I can track is the brown dirt beneath my feet as I drag myself forward.

When we arrive at the clinic, the doctor and his nurse, Emilia, are waiting at the door to greet us. Emilia shifts Chloe to the side, her young face alight with compassion for my injury. Her scrubs are streaked with colors I don't want to think about as she reaches out for me. Rachelle hands me off, and I look at Chloe as I'm gently guided through the door.

"Are you coming inside too?" I ask her.

She bites her lips and shakes her head. "I'm not a doctor," she replies, effectively keeping the boundary between us in place.

My shoulders sag and I break the eye contact as I'm pulled deeper into the shaded building. Cesar comes in too, and the doctor starts asking questions about the incident as I'm laid out on an exam table. I answer their questions, and Cesar fills in the blanks when my mind drifts off due to the ache that keeps building. After Emilia cleans the wound it's decided I will need stitches and, thankfully, they'll only trim down the hair directly around the wound. I have enough hair that it won't be toonoticeable while that part grows back. Vain? Maybe. But I've long ago given up feeling awkward about my love affair with my hair.

Thirty minutes later I'm escorted back to the work site at my own demand. I've been given pain meds and told what symptoms to watch for. The doctor wanted me to spend the rest of the day lying in my room, resting. While I fully understand the seriousness of head trauma, I came here for a reason, and a compromise was struck. I'll sit against a wall for the last hour of our workday, in the shade, near where the work is happening so that I can answer questions and help where I can. My background in construction has helped the work move along faster in the time I've been here, and I don't want to see it slow down.

I've been sitting for ten minutes when Carlos shows up. He looks stern as he approaches and I wince.

"Señor Holt," he says as he comes to stand above me, hands on his hips. "We are not happy about injured volunteers sitting in the dirt."

I manage what I hope is a charming smile. "Lifting Hope has a reputation to uphold," I respond. "I won't tell anyone."

His scowl deepens. "This is not about a bad review on your internet," he scoffs. "We are helpers of people. We are not hurting people."

I nod. "Sorry."

"You need rest. Doctor told me you said no. I say yes. Go rest. Come back tomorrow."

I gesture to where the men have cleaned up the spilled plaster and stood up the fallen ladder. "I'm supervising them, answering questions. I'm just sitting quietly."

He shakes his head. "No. I am saying go to your room and rest. And I am the boss." He taps his thumb against his chest. "Understand?"

I do. Plus, I respect what he's doing here, and I don't want to make things harder on him. I stand with some effort, my head still a littlewonky, and salute him before heading off to my room. I barely make it, sweating as I enter the door, the nausea crawling up my throat. I flop onto the bed, grateful that it's cool and dark, and I close my eyes. Suddenly, I want my mom.

I find my phone in my back pocket and, thankful for my long-held international plan, I dial her number. I'm sure she's at work, but whenever I'm out of the country she's good about answering regardless. Sure enough, she comes through as she always does.

"Holt," she answers, her voice quiet but pleased. "Give me a second to get somewhere private so we can talk."

I picture her face, still young-looking but beginning to show laugh lines around her light eyes, and am immediately comforted. I may be twenty-four, but there are some things only your mom can make better.

A minute later she's back, her voice warm. "How are you?" she asks.

I fill her in on my accident and she's sympathetic in all the right ways. If I was home she'd make me chocolate chip cookies, because they have healing properties, and she'd hum in the kitchen while she baked. Before I moved to North Carolina last year, I'd lived at home while I went to school. As an only child there wasn't much motivation to leave. I've missed my parents this past year. Thinking about people I miss has me think of Chloe again.

"Mom, Chloe is here," I say in a near whisper, still somewhat unable to believe it.

I can feel her surprise over the phone line. "What? Chloe is there? In Peru?" She pauses. "She got on a plane?"

My mom loves Chloe and knows all about her fear of flying.

"Yeah. She did."

"Wow. I'm . . . how on earth did the two of you end up at the same place?" she says, still processing this news.

"What, no talk about fate and destiny?" I tease.

She laughs. "How is she? How are you?"

"She's . . . distant and cool," I reply. "I'm not distant or cool."

She laughs again. "Of course she's distant, Holt. She was hurt." She pauses. "Have you talked to her? Does she know how you feel?"

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