I breathed a silent prayer as I punched in my pin.
The machine thought for a moment, then spit out a stack of córdoba.
I took the money and walked down the street.
Three figures approached in the distance—their shapes quavered against the cobblestones. Beyond them, beyond the rooftops, Cerro Negro smoldered against the sky. A thin plume rose from its dark slope.
The shapes grew larger.
I recognized them.
It was Amy. Vanessa and Rachel stood behind her.
“Hi.”
I smiled and held out the wad of bills.
“This is yours.”
She looked surprised but reached forward anyway.
“… Is your card working?”
“I guess so. Anyway, what did you find out?”
She hesitated.
“There aren’t any buses to Granada tomorrow.”
Vanessa cut in.
“We did find one bus leaving in an hour, but it only has enough seats for the three of us.”
I looked at my feet.
“You three should just go without me. I’ll see you at school next week. Yeah?”
Amy’s fingers lingered.
“But what are you going to do?”
I shrugged.
“Probably find dinner and somewhere to sleep.”
I looked at the smoke rising over the city.
“I have an idea. We’re even now, anyway.”
Then she took the money and turned towards the bus station.
The others followed.
~
That evening, I found myself at Bigfoot Hostel.
People sprawled at tables and chairs thet spilled onto the sidewalk while fans inside chopped at the stagnant air. A band played from a small stage in the background.
“Hey. Small world, isn’t it?”
I looked up.
A man with a colorful shirt smiled at me from beneath a straw hat.
“Remember me? San Francisco airport?”
“Bard? What are you doing here? And–”
I scratched my chin.
“You grew a beard.”
He laughed.
“Feels like a lifetime ago. Hey, I thought you were headed to Costa Rica. How’d you end up here?”
“I came with friends. But …”
I looked around, at the unfamiliar faces.
He stopped me.
“I think I owe you a beer.”
Then he got up and walked to the counter.
Above the bar hung a hand-painted sign.
VOLCANO BOARDING: $20
When he came back, he held two beers in his hands. The glasses were already perspiring.
He slid one toward me as he sat; then nodded toward the sign.
“Ever thought about it? Throwing yourself down the side of a volcano on a sheet of plywood.”
I took a sip.
“My friend Rosa did it a few weeks ago. She said she hit a bump near the bottom, briefly left the ground, and set a speed record. Fifty miles per hour, if you believe it.”
“Sounds about right.”
“I can’t get it out of my head. Now that I’m here, it feels–”
He took a sip.
“Hope you brought good shoes. You stop with your heels, you know.”
I looked down.
Sandals.
For the first time, I pictured the mountain instead of the story.
Loose volcanic rock.
A seventy-percent slope.
No brakes except my own feet.
I shook my head.
“So, now what?”
Bard shrugged.
“I don’t know. The pollo’s good here and the beer’s cheap.”
I took another sip.
The band began a new song. Behind us, the crowd began to sing along.