11THE STORM IN Batanes is drawing near. You don’t see it in the sky, which remains as blue as ever, but you smell it in the air, a combination of driftwood and pebbles. The
dark clouds on the far horizon are clumping together like horsemen arranging themselves for battle.
Ferdinand wakes me up by five in the morning. I hear all the incessant knocking on my door and think I must be dreaming, but then maybe there’s news about you. I fling my comforter and
open the door.
“Morning!” He smiles widely at me, wearing his baseball cap.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Biking. If you move real fast, we might make it by sunrise.”
I stand with my mess of a hair and barely have the energy to scowl at him.
“Come on, Crisanta, what’s the point of being in a beautiful place if you
